


Alignment

by brzenskaa



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon Related, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Reader, Fix-It of Sorts, Growing Up, Growing Up Together, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Minor Original Character(s), Origin Story, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Teen Arthur Morgan, Young Arthur Morgan, slight AU, young reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2019-12-26 00:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18272228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brzenskaa/pseuds/brzenskaa
Summary: Over the course of several years, you keep running into the same outlaw.





	1. I: It's Just Horse Meat

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> This is my first reader fic, and also might as well be my first real work I have posted here. Please feel free to critique, suggest ideas, and let me know if you see any errors. 
> 
> Also a few notes before this gets started:
> 
>  **Reader age timeline- subject to change**  
>  Chapter I: 14  
> Chapter II: 17  
> Chapter III: 19  
> Chapter IV: 21
> 
> I also have this tagged as impled sexual content, but I will put in the beginning notes if the chapter contains any of that stuff. Right now, this story contains nothing but suggested actions. Also to clarify the underage tag, the year difference between reader and Arthur is roughly 2-3 years. But with how age gaps fall, I guess it could be considered underage depending on when I imply it? But, just in case, it's tagged. I'm not too keen on writing detailed F/M since I don't roll that way, but I also strive to give people what they want! Maybe in time if you _really_ wanna see it. :)
> 
> General Disclaimer: I do not own any content or characters of Red Dead Redemption.

The first time you met the outlaw, you weren’t entirely sure he wasn’t going to kill you. At the mere age of fourteen, fresh out of the grasps of the orphanage you’d fled from, you hadn’t yet acquired any inkling of toned skill in stealing nor gun handling. Your desperate need to prove you could survive on your own outside of that devil-made orphanage had finally pushed you to stop travelling on your feet and get a reliable mount.

In a small ranch town in the heart of West Elizabeth is where you had pinpointed what would be the start of life on your own. After a few days of camping nearby, you acknowledged the busyness of the ranch at midday and the patrols that scoured the night. Out of town folk often passed through the town, and were obliged to stay overnight in the guest cottages. The owners had recently finished building a grand corral for their horses, a large structure that was expertly divided to cater the sorting and training of ranch horses. You were careful to observe where they kept the wild horses and the broke horses, pitying the idea of hopping upon a bronco and drawing every pair of ears on the ranch to your attempt at hijacking.

As the last streaks of pink and purple formed into the dark expanse of the night sky, you reveled in your nervousness about sneaking around this place. Although you had mapped out every necessary move in your mind, it was still hard to shake the fact that this was stealing. Something you’d never done before, nor been allowed to do. Snatching a half-eaten chocolate bar from under a roommates pillow in the orphanage was nothing next to what you were about to do.

Your breath was nearly impossible to steady as you finally slinked down from the hills and towards the center of the ranch. Every noise had your heart skipping a beat, and eventually the biggest worry you had was that one of the ranch dogs would see you through the darkness. The patrol was already moving towards the stockyards and away from the horses, so you only kept an eye out for any lurking canines.

Slipping through the fence of the corral, you squinted in attempt to see more than the outlines of the horses that swished their tails and shimmied next to each other. A few weary glances from a couple of horses nearby reminded you to rise to your full height so you didn’t spook them by sneaking around.  
The racket of a door swinging open nearby stilled you in your shoes, taking your breath away in an instant. It came from the main ranch house, where you’d seen the owners lounge in and out.

“Alright, alright, I’ll go tell ‘em. C’mon Jack,” a lady’s voice, strong with southern dialect, rang out across the silence. A small yip from a dog accompanied her. You sank back to the ground again, moving closer to a nearby pen of horses in attempt to hide behind their large forms. The yellow glow of a lantern rounded along the outside of the grand corral fence, but thankfully continued in the direction of where the patrol had walked to.

Letting out a sigh of relief, you rose to your feet again, only to instantly regret it. One wrong, quick move sent a nearby chestnut throwing its head in worry, and the reaction spread to the rest that shared a pen with it. The mass panic urged whinnies from them, and the sound of shuffling hooves sounded like a small cloud of thunder within a matter of seconds.

As soon as the lantern jerked back towards the corral and the dog accompanying it barked out, you wasted no time. You nearly splintered your hand as you jumped at the gate of the pen, swinging it open so the horses could flood past you into the bigger opening at the center of the corral area. Your hands blindly gripped fists full of coarse mane as the horses rushed past, nearly trampling you, and you heaved yourself onto the back of a horse. The limited movement of your skirt had you worrying that you would fall, not to mention you didn’t have anything to control the horse with.

The lantern was suddenly fully shining its hateful haze across the corral, and the dog had morphed into the growling protector it was bred to be. You yanked the horse’s mane on instinct, managing to flinch it away from the light that threatened to reveal you to the woman in pursuit.

“Hey you, stop!” the lady shouted, “Boys! Over here!”

A few more shouts and clopping hooves signaled the approach of the patrol team. With no more time to lose, your hands deftly yanked loose the ugly scarf you’d been forced to wear at the orphanage and ringed it around the lower portion of the horse’s neck, a poor attempt at makeshift reins. With nothing else to use, you spurred your heels into the horse’s side and chased after it with your voice, snarling and clucking to get it to move. Having no steering besides pressure of the silk, you were slowly beginning to imagine your failure, and how the ranch folk would scoop you up, intentions of the jail house serving justice in their point of view. Even with your riding skills limited by your lack of reins and the presence of your cursed skirt, you decided you would get away one way or another.

With white knuckles you gripped the scarf in your hands and stiffened your back hard enough you were sure a feather could cause it to break. This stiffness didn’t leave any inch of your body until you encouraged the horse to jump the corral fence. Once on the other side without falling off, you chased the horse with your voice once more, not even sparing your pursuers a glance over your shoulder. Digging forcefully into the earth with each stride, your mount pumped its legs hurriedly according to your sounds, ears pinned in annoyance with all of the racket following.

You aren’t sure what in God’s name allowed you to get the luck of the draw, but you did. The steed underneath you labored its breath as it left the patrol team in the dust, clearly no match for the chasing horses. You couldn’t allow it to stop, not yet. Continuously you clucked and with a free hand waved at the mounts rear, urging it faster and faster across the desert terrain.

It wasn’t until you couldn’t recognize any of your surroundings that you pulled back on both sides of the scarf, getting a quick response from the horse as it shuffled down several gaits and halted. Above you the moon barely shone, casting a thick blanket of black that was now unpierced by any street lights or lanterns. Cicadas hummed hesitantly nearby, and the wind brushed cacti against one another in a natural symphony. The horse took heaving, strong breaths through its nostrils. Finally letting out your own breath that felt like you’d been holding for hours, you mustered up enough courage to slide off the side of the horse. Begrudgingly you tried to ignore the pitiful weakness in your knees and the shaking of your hands.

Your getaway stepped to the side nervously, eyeing the source of that frightful voice that had driven it to such great measures. It held its head high, ears pinned in a permanent flat state. You eyed the beast, making note to wrap your scarf around its neck opposite the way you’d had it earlier. If the beast wished to flee, you wouldn’t be able to stop it, with or without the scarf.

After glancing around at the expanse of the red dirt plain, you decided there was no point of stopping now.

* * *

Despite your decision to keep going, it isn’t until you realize there is sunlight filtering through your eyelids that you realize you had fallen asleep. You awoke with a cheek pressed into the clay dirt underneath you. To your surprise, your companion was a few feet away, lazily picking through a sharp bush for a bite to eat. In the bright sunlight, you could now see that the horse was a bright chestnut, sporting short white socks and a strong blaze on its muzzle.

The prick of a small cactus next to you had you lurching to your feet, patting away the dust that clung to and stained your skirt. Even without seeing it in a mirror, you could feel that your hair was a disheveled mess and your blouse sported a few extra tears in the shoulders.

Looking to mend the bad first impression you’d given your companion, you slowly approached the stallion and reached a hand to pat his neck. Seemingly over the fuss of last night, the horse didn’t even lift his head at the contact. He only continued his search for a stalk of something to eat.

“Yeah, you ‘n me both.” you said as the realization that you hadn’t had food in days hit your stomach. Out in this desert you knew the horse wouldn’t find more to eat than a few stray patches of dead grass. Good water wouldn’t be easy to find, either, and neither of you would last long without both.

Making do with the situation, you fetched your wilderness knife from your boot and carefully cut off a portion of a small barbary fig. The branch yielded a prickly fruit, to which you plucked free of spines and sliced open with your knife. Watery juice spilled from the skin as the knife pierced the fruit, and you hovered it over your mouth as to not waste any of the drink. It was just enough to wet your mouth, which you were grateful for. Once you had cut it completely open, you offered what juice balanced on the inside of one piece to the stallion. He eagerly lapped the drink up, although it wasn’t much more than two licks before his lips spilled the rest.

“C’mon boy,” you murmured as you allowed him to eat the rest. “We gotta be close to somethin’,” your hands grabbed onto that familiar coarse mane and you heaved yourself up onto the stallion’s back. The scarf wound around his neck again, this time providing support for you more than control for him. With that, the two of you trudged across the rocky fields.

* * *

As the sun just began its slow decent past the noon mark, the view of a few wooden buildings fathomed in the distance, slightly distorted from heat waves. You squinted as if it would make the view any clearer, but decided that was your destination regardless if you could clearly see or not. You clucked at your red steed to pick up the pace, and he cantered onwards.

Drawing closer to one of the buildings, you could tell that this was in fact a small town. More buildings resided past the ones you’d previously seen at a distance. A general store and a saloon were the first to greet you as slowed the stallion to a walk, neither of which were helpful, considering you didn’t have a single coin.

A few horses lined the street, hitched at different buildings. You envied the tack on them, your eyes greedily admiring each saddle as you rode past. You were almost desperate enough to steal one, but wouldn’t in the open. That was more trouble than it was worth.

Pale bricks jutted out from the ground at the end of the town strip, and your mouth instantly dried at the thought of water.

You wasted no time as you slid off the horse and scrambled to draw a pail of water up from the well. The pulley couldn’t deliver fast enough. Once the pail sloshed up within reach, you nearly poured it all down the front of your blouse. Setting down the pail, you cupped your hands to gather plentiful sips; it was fairly cold from its deep dwelling in the shade. Remembering your manners, you offered the pail to your stallion once you had drank your fill. As you waited for him to finish, your eyes wandered to the people filing around the small town, to which you had just taken notice of. Some men trudged in and out of the run-down saloon, and a passerby would stop near the general store. It was odd how lifeless this small town had seemed at first. But as you stood there in observance, you found that it was quite the opposite. How had these people found themselves in the middle of the desert, just as you had?

Just as you had begun to ponder a name for your chestnut companion, your attention was subtly drawn to shouting coming from by the saloon. Being far away, it was hard to tell what had happened, but you could make out two figures stepping away from the saloon doors. They bickered back and forth, the one with the darker hair would occasionally throw his hands up in frustration as the other tailed him closely. They made their way down the street, in your direction, but you couldn’t be bothered by something that wasn’t your business.

Turning back to examine the bucket, you were glad to see the horse had drank his fill. “There boy,” you whispered with a small grin, reaching up to stroke his smooth neck.

* * *

The next few days you drifted along the outskirts of the town, which you had discovered was called Armadillo. You rummaged through crashed wagons in the wasteland, picking up spare change here and there as well as a rusted revolver you’re sure didn’t even work. Your main source of income came from the rabbit pelts you sold to the general store. The shopkeeper there had grown severely impressed by the perfectly stripped rabbit pelts you hauled in every day.

Once you had acquired a reasonable sum, you set out on a small journey to the nearest stable in search of tack. The locals had directed you west, to a town called Tumbleweed.

This town was not like Armadillo. It was livelier, in fact. Within it lied several more amenities, including a gunsmith. There were more folks bustling along the dirt roads, moving in and out of the secluded town. That also meant more people to give you strange looks as you walked past, as you now took a little pride in how you’d managed to ride this horse with no proper bridle. Keeping those looks in mind as your motivation, you headed towards the stable.

A boy at the stable was the first to help you. The stablehand, evidently. He looked to be not too many years older than you, and something at the back of your mind told you he looked familiar for a brief moment. His even, black hair reminded you of a friend from the orphanage, of which you had little reminiscence of. When you tried to approach him, you realized just how long it had been since you were really in a position to have a conversation. Most of your days consisted of hunting, riding, and hardly much else.

“Excuse me?” you nearly squeaked as you slid off the side of your horse and peered around at the stablehand. “I’m lookin’ to buy some tack.” A loud pat on your horse’s neck drew the boy’s attention to the fact that the horse was indeed bare, save for the silk accessory.

“Of course, miss. Anything in particular?” the boy beamed a friendly smile, gesturing his hand in the air for you to follow. You obliged, clucking to your stallion for him to follow. The shade of the barn was a relief from the searing heat of day. Wafts of mildew hay and leather pleasantly filled your nose, and a wash of tiredness came over you at the comforting sensation.

“Just somethin’ affordable,” you replied after a small silence. The boy gave your horse a pat before walking over to the area behind him, and you followed suit. It wasn’t long before he was rummaging around a pile of worn saddle pads, seemingly in search of something particular. Before he could get out any other words, an older man entered the barn through a side door, bringing with him a cloud of cigarette smoke. He dusted his gloves off on one another, ceasing his grumbling as he laid eyes upon you and the stablehand.

“Oh, pardon me, little lady!” he announced as he fixed his posture upon seeing you. You offered him a smile, nodding your head back at him in a polite gesture. “I trust Valen here has helped you out so far?” The man reached up to flatten his goatee, eyeing the boy, Valen, expectantly.

“Yessir,” Valen spoke, nodding his head as his fingers found purchase on a thicker saddle pad and pulled it from the stack. He handed it over to you before he returned to browsing, and you placed it on the stallion’s back. While Valen studied the stock of different saddles, the older man sparked a conversation.

“That’s a fine horse you got there, miss.” He stepped up to slap a few pats onto the horse’s neck, studying the white blaze that split the animal’s face. “S’gotta good build like them MacFarlane’s horses. That where you got ‘im from?” There was no threat in the man’s voice at all, but to you it might as well have been a gunshot through your chest. Swallowing thickly, you gave a grin and a nod, fixating your hands with petting the red coat in front of you.

“Sure did,” you said, stepping to the side as Valen approached with a saddle and effortlessly tossed it up onto the horse’s back. “I didn’t think they were gonna budge, but evidently the price was right.” You blurted out a string of lies, acting as cool as you hoped you seemed. The next few moments were spent in silence as you continued to admire the stud, and your eyes briefly shared a small glance with Valen. He stood close enough as he tightened the cinch for you to notice his emerald green eyes, nearly prettier than the fields by Thieves Landing. At some point the older man had walked out of the barn, to which you were relieved.

“So, you live in the area?” The boy’s voice drew you out of your trance. “Not exactly,” you replied, almost too quickly. This got a chuckle out of him, and it was hard to not smile.

“Wish I could say the same,” Valen quipped as he grabbed a bridle from a rack and approached your horse, bit in hand. The stallion had no hesitation as his lips came into contact with the bit, and he took it into his mouth smoothly. Valen’s fingers worked to slip the rest of the bridle properly over the horse’s ears. “Alright, you’re all set.” He gave a confirming nod as he stepped back to look.

“What do I owe you?” your hands fished for the coin pouch you kept hidden at the waistline of your skirt, but when you looked back up, an otherworldly feeling grabbed hold of you. His next few words had you at a standstill.

“Don’t worry about that, just… get outta here when you can.”

The boy seemed to see right through you, as if he comfortably knew your situation as a horse thief and runaway orphan. All your mouth could do was hang open, unable to produce any fitting words. Instead of being foreboding, Valen simply peered at you with a smile.

* * *

It wasn’t until several days after that the puzzle pieces from that day all fell into place. You had discovered that the MacFarlane Ranch wasn’t just some farm. Many people in New Austin knew the name, and even more knew the owners. By luck, you had also managed to come across a poster that answered your other question, and it hung on a bare pole near the railroad that split the desert in two. Its black ink spoke of the orphanage, and how the sisters there were in search of a runaway child. Below was a blurry photo of you, the sisters, and one of your roommates dressed up nice, and somehow you had known that photo would be used against you somehow. There was a reward listed, and you ridiculed on how similar it seemed to a bounty poster. It didn’t spark any accomplishment in you, however. Now that you knew the orphanage was desperate to find you, there was also a ranch you’d stolen from that was just as eager for you to slip up. With your cover blown in Tumbleweed, is was important that you kept moving.

By the time night had fell and the colder atmosphere settled along the wasteland, you had secured a spot along a rocky cliff that still allowed you to peer into the open expanse. Your rugged blouse and skirt made no shelter from the chilly air, but you had taught yourself to make a fire. You were hungry, but didn’t feel like venturing out into the dark, so instead you dealt with it by observing your surroundings.

A small fire flickered in the far distance, and you had focused on it for a while until you saw the flames die out. The white smoke that emerged into the black sky told you someone had thrown water on it, likely in preparation for sleep. That was a concept that sounded good to you, but something deep down urged you to go and investigate. It was a stupid choice, considering there were posters flying around with your face and cash reward on them, but you ignored that voice in your head. You left your stallion to rest near camp when you departed.

A weary, slow walk through the underbrush of the desert eventually found you approaching several canvas tents. You glanced over your shoulder to remind yourself of which direction you had come from before slinking closer to the slumbering strangers, hidden in their tents.

The faint moon in the sky wasn’t as bright as you wished it were. Darkness was close in your peripherals, hindering you only aware of what you could make out in front of you. Straying far away from the tents as if they could lurch out and bite you, you only preyed upon the items that these people had left outside. A small wooden chest contained a few apples and a bottle of quality tonic, all of which you stuffed into the small satchel that hung at your side. A small glint in the darkness caught your eye, and you recognized it as coins laying near a bedroll.

Immediately you regretted those tentative steps you took towards the money. A strong arm suddenly found its way around your neck, the hand attached to it taking purchase around your mouth while another limb held the cold barrel of a pistol to your temple. You nearly bit your tongue in half to keep from making any noise, and your body stiffened against the threat’s form. The cold sweat that found your skin only chilled you to your core when a voice spoke out from behind you.

“You make a sound, this’ll go bad for the both’us.” Had you been calmer, you would have noticed how fairly young the voice sounded. The arm tightened its grip as a warning before slowly leaving you, and you wished you could just run. Run without turning around to face whoever caught you.

Grasping your shoulder now, the stranger turned you around to face them, gun still held against your icy skin. A black bandana hid half of the stranger’s face, but even through the dark you could see the unrelenting expression the face held.

“You know these people?” he ask, nodding towards you at the tents circling the camp. You shook your head stiffly, “Was just robbin’ em.” You murmured, unsure if you could answer his question aloud. That seemed to relax his shoulders a bit, but even as he lowered the gun, his eyes held you strongly in your place.

“Del Lobo,” he said, making a small gesture towards the expanse of canvas behind you. He waited for a reply, but nothing registered across your face as you simply stared at him. A sigh left the boy, and he gestured again. “They’re part of a gang, Del Lobo. Always killin’ and robbin’… you’re lucky they’re asleep.” A cold gaze still held you where you stood, and suddenly you felt like you could shiver as he spoke about the people you had decided to steal from. Vaguely you could remember the Sisters always whispering about some gang in New Austin, discussing it before taking the children out into town on a grocery run. It had been humorous at the time, the way they seemed terrified to step out into the sunlight of a town. Being a kid, you hadn’t been bothered by any lick of possibility of danger. You had just been excited to actually see the world and spend a couple coins on candy.

Holstering the pistol at his side, the mystery figure casually stepped past you, almost as if you weren’t there anymore. Confused on your luck of stepping away alive from a stranger in the night, you couldn’t help but follow. Now that your mind had come to a screeching halt from the adrenaline and your body worked out its stiffness, you could get a better look at him. He was definitely young, his lean build said that much.

After noticing that he had begun rummaging quietly through a stack of crates, you returned to that shiny pile of coins you had your eye on before being held at gunpoint. It was around eight dollars in coins, shockingly left to sit in the night. You think nothing of it as you pocketed the money, glad to be stealing from people who probably deserved it. With a small glance to make sure the masked stranger wasn’t going to jump you, you continued your search. Under an abandoned bedroll, you found three more dollars and a spool of thick rope. Sure that it would come in handy, you slipped the gathered rope over your torso, wearing it as you did your satchel.

“I heard some Sisters down south are looking for a runaway, for a pretty price, too.” Those words felt colder than the barrel of the gun from earlier. You turned as the boy approached from behind, evidently finished with his own ransacking of the camp. Fast heartbeats became a rhythm in your chest again. Before you could speak past the lump in your throat, he spoke again, “I know what it’s like, bein’ hellbent on getting out of an orphanage. Ain’t no price big enough for me to take anyone back to one.”

For a moment, he seemed lax and solemn. Something of his past had sparked, and you found yourself interested, but that interest was still barred by the fact that he could choose to kill you at any moment. You offered a small smile to him, a silent way to thank him. That cold look in his eyes had melted down into something casual as you both dismissed from the camp, walking a few meters away before stopping. Looking out across the span of land, you briefly caught a glimpse of a tall, dark figure in the distance, swishing its tail idly. His horse, presumably. “Be careful stickin’ your nose where it doesn’t belong.” The masked stranger turned and started towards his horse, and you spoke out before he got too far. “Thanks for not turning me in.”

He simply gave a nod with his head as his figure morphed into the dark, indistinguishable from the sky and ground. On your walk back to your own camp, you pondered on the circumstance.

You realized you didn’t catch his name, nor did he catch yours, but it was for the best.


	2. II: In Bellmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd, just because I wanted to push out a new chapter before this dies completely.
> 
> Little note: Bellmare is a made up town. Couldn't think of a fitting in-game location so I made my own.
> 
> Updates still to come, they will just be slow. I plan on incorporating some RDO game stuff into my story to make it a little more personalized than just following the main story line in-game. Who else uses RDO to develop their OC? Whoops.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who supported the first chapter! I am thrilled it was such a hit, so I will continue to write this story. Happy reading!

The second time you encountered the stranger, you almost didn’t recognize him.  


A few years had passed since you made your escape from the orphanage in New Austin. Now seventeen, you had honed your skills out in the wild and were hopping from state to state, from town to town. You bound around the country, taking up bounty hunting in one place and hunting rare game in the next. Your steed, now named Fiamètte (a spin on the Italian word Fiammetta, meaning “fiery one”), had carried you across the land graciously. More of your months than most were spent in a small town called Bellmare. It was an all-trades town, drawing in tourists and locals alike, feeding off of the people’s needs for decent paying jobs. Employers swamped this place, and the majority here had incoming wages.  


With the rich tourists pouring their earnings into the economy and the employers hiring anyone and everyone, it had become a place of life, formerly just a farming town. In a busy place such as this one, it was easy to come by money, and there were different ways to acquire it. 

 

Angry hoof beats tore up the ground underneath you as you spurred your red steed forward. His legs reached out and retracted at a long, steady gallop, his breath hardly laboring. You sat forward in the saddle to get off of his back, freeing up as much intrusion as you could while the beast raced forward. A quick glance over your shoulder- and then one ahead- told you to pick up the pace. After encouraging with a pat on the neck, you bumped your heels at his side several times and kept the reins tight, holding his head back as your legwork pushed his backside forwards. The red horse complied, and chomped at the bit, baring his teeth as he worked himself up. Holding his head strongly resulted in a shortened stride, but as you added some gas to the flame, the stallion’s legs ate up the ground in a blur. The beats became faster than your own racing heart, and soon the riders who had begun to trail behind you were left in the dust.  


Rounding along a rocky road, your eyes found the sea of people crowded on the outskirts of town. They were waving, crying, cheering from a distance. You and your steed were nothing but a blur as the sea of people parted and you demolished the finish line, an array of salt drawn across the road that took flight with a gush. Adjusting your seat, you shifted to sit along Fiamètte’s back, signaling that he could slow down. You cantered on a little further once the horse broke gate, mindful that the rest of the riders would be piling behind you soon.  


The rush of money after the race is what made it all worth it. You collected bets from atop your mount, catching bills as hands flew at you in both congratulations and sourness. The big surge of horse racing in bigger states had caused a chain-reaction across the nation, and little did most people know how much money you could make if you had a decent horse. This town, Bellmare, was the heart of small-town racing. With enough tourists and working families to keep the money flowing strong, the town had gained a boost from gambling on the sidelines. And at the center of it, there you were. Atop your fiery red horse, who stood unmatched in speed ever since you had strolled into the place.  


After the crowd had died down a bit from the bill collection, you dismounted your heaving horse, loosening the girth deftly to help him recover his stamina. The sweat that escaped from under the saddle dripped off his flanks and nostrils widened to take in gasps of air as you poured affection all over him, thankful for such a complacent animal. You unclipped a leather flask from your side and began pouring the cool water down Fiamètte’s neck, relieving the hot skin there.  


“You, miss, have a spectacular horse on your hands.” A man’s voice spoke over your shoulder, and you turned from your horse to talk to the local. “You ever thought about takin’ em’ to Cali?” The man continued, and you nearly burst a laugh at him.  


“No, sir,” you grinned, returning the empty flask to your side. “He ain’t no thoroughbred.” Even without a fancy pedigree, you were sure your horse could win any race. The man chortled in response and clapped his friend on the shoulder as he approached, hands deftly sorting through a small handful of cash bills.  


“You hear that, Hosea? Not a thoroughbred!”  


The other man that had approached, scrawnier and blonde in nature compared to the dark-clad gentleman, gave you a surprised look as he dished out a few bills to you. “By God, the damn thing can run, though.” He smiles, and for a moment the two voices talking in unison bear a small sense of familiarity.  


You thank the two with a nod, accepting their bet money and bewilderment with equal grace. A younger man joined the small conversation around you; he slipped between the man with dark hair and the blonde, fingers fumbling with bills he presumably owed to the other men. The pair laughed and nudged the newcomer and gave him a hard time about losing a bet. His eyes were arrogant, sharp, yet… soft. Your mind easily compares those eyes to the mysterious stranger you had met years ago, but part of you ridicules it. You realize you’ve been staring too long when the men finally slink away back into the rush of the town.  


\-----

The next morning, you find yourself at a standstill once more, staring at a particular face. You had decided to make a morning run to the general store before leaving the town of Bellmare.  


In front of you, the young man attempts to sweettalk the storeowner into giving him a free chocolate bar. She’s older, with long raven curls that hang down her shoulders and apple red lipstick. Too porcelain and too old for him, you think, but the young man continues to flirt and leans on the counter. A purchase is made, finally, and you study the triumphant candy and the leather-bound journal in his hands when he turns to leave. His eyes catch yours—and again—those blue-green pools remind you of that cool desert night in New Austin.  


The exchange had you pausing as you stepped up to the counter to pay for the bushel of apples you carried. You tossed a few coins onto the counter and spun on your heels, letting your curiosity drag you towards the young man. You caught him as he approached his horse, and suddenly you weren’t sure of what you intended to say to him. He seemed to notice you over his shoulder, and foolishly you couldn’t get any words out before him.  


“You need somethin’, lady?” his tone matched the expression on his face, and you stood there at a loss.  


“Sorry, you just-- look familiar ‘n all.” You finally drawled, letting the sack of apples dangle at your side. The young man’s face briefly flashed through some unreadable emotion before he squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow. The stare was slightly scrutinizing.  


“Lucky fer’you, I never forget a face. You’re that runaway orphan from New Austin,” he pauses, “or do you prefer the term “horse thief” instead?”  
Your eyes went wide at his sudden recollection of that meeting several years ago. You frowned at the title, and took a pushy, offensive step towards him. “The whole world ain’t gotta hear it!” you chastise. This brings a sharp smirk to his lips, and he unties his horse with no other regard.  


“Look, I gotta question,” you start again, trying to even your voice out. You knew you couldn’t trust this man just because you’d seen him once before, but you also knew if he were dangerous, he wouldn’t have let you go that night in the Del Lobo camp. His head turns to look at you as he steps up into the horse’s saddle. He waits.  


“What’s your name? I didn’t catch it last time.” You adjust to look up at him atop his mount, sun in your eyes as you do.  
“Tacitus Kilgore,” he says. At first you think he is just pulling your leg, but the seriousness of his tone makes you think otherwise. He seems to notice your hesitation as you stare at him blankly. It takes a lot for him to not laugh, so instead he cracks a smile.  


“Y’might wanna watch whose camp you walk into next time,” he chides and bumps his mare with his heels. Once again you stop to watch him walk into the distance, eventually out of sight and past the town shops.  


If you see him again, you decide you will ask him his real name.


	3. III: You Shall Lose, Yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.
> 
> This took way too long for me to finish, and turns out, it's probably a pretty short chapter. Sorry. I already have the plans for the next chapter, however, so another update shouldn't be too far away. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Slight graphic depiction of death. Implied sexual content. 
> 
> Part of this chapter will reintroduce that stableboy from chapter 1. Except now he is grown up and I made him into an OC. Sorry, I know OC's aren't a popular demand, but he's here. Imagine him how you want! I'm not about to share my nerdy faceclaim for him. 
> 
> Also, I love the headcanon that young!Arthur is a bit of a playboy. Reader is around 19 in this chapter, keep in mind Arthur is still a young lad too, probably early 20's. So, here you go. 
> 
> Unbeta'd again because dear god I can't get these out fast enough.
> 
> Enjoy! Let me know if the pace is too quick or if you find any errors.

Before you left the town of Bellmare, you had run into another familiar face besides Tacitus Kilgore. A young man by the name of Valen. He had helped you out on your escape from New Austin, shortly before the stable owner had caught onto exactly who you were. Of all the faces you had come to know, of all the locals in both Bellmare and New Austin, you found his memory the most pleasant. He was a charming young man, and he harbored a similar mischief you saw in yourself. When you discovered that he himself had run away from his abusive parents, you thought it was almost too good to be true.

Together, the two of you picked up several undesired trades: hustling, gambling, and stealing, to name a few. It was all in good spirits, of course. You didn’t fancy the idea of pulling a gun on someone. You would rather sneak in and out of a lonely house undetected or flirt your way into the pocket of an older man or woman. Valen had acquired a string of train station attendants through picking up odd jobs for side cash. His connections would be the eyes and ears of your profit, whispering about unguarded coaches or rich folk who lived in town. 

It was good earnings. The two of you quickly became best friends, hardly going anywhere without the other. He was charm, and you were wit. It was a perfect system. 

As you grew more comfortable with this self-made lifestyle, with Valen, you began to slip up. Just barely. 

And barely was all it took for you to decide you would never again let your guard down. 

The sky was a chilly dusk outside when the two of you approached the coal factory. Word from one of Valen’s connections said that this factory was in the process of shutting down, going out of business. The wealthy factory owner was giving up on the coal industry and was killed in his home a few days ago. This meant that the workers, being paid by the town hall to clear the building of any company valuables, had been put off until officials could decide what to do with legal obligations concerning the deceased factory owner. Until a decision could be reached, the place was abandoned, and otherwise free game for whoever could sneak inside. 

“He said it’s possible that some bonds were left in the owner’s office,” Valen informs you while the two of you wait for the sun to fully set. You didn’t know much about how businesses worked. “What’s a bond?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. Although the Sisters in the orphanage had tried to teach the kids about everything important in life, you don’t remember hearing anything about factories. 

“Bonds are worth a lot of money,” Valen says. “They can be thousands of dollars. My pa worked for a factory owner, before he got hurt and was laid off to work in his own stable.” 

You nod quietly, eyes drinking in the dark shadow of the monstrous factory before you. It was easy to imagine what you would do with a thousand dollars- or, even several thousand dollars! All you had to do was break into the factory. The profits would be shared with Valen, gladly, and the two of you would be set for… who knows how long! 

“Ready?” you smile at him, eyes bright with fun and mischief. 

“I’m always ready.” Maybe the promise of thousands of dollars had blinded you, or maybe it was the high from adrenaline. Maybe it was your love of pure fun, or maybe it was none of those things. Something in your mind should have told you it sounded too easy. And perhaps the thought did arise, but when had you failed before? This simple break-in was the road to a small fortune. Of course, you didn’t hesitate. 

When Valen’s blood splatters onto your face, you wish you would have hesitated. When your eyes double from horror and your best friend thumps harshly against the wood floor, you wish you would have hesitated. 

Valen’s connection had been a set up. The teller working directly with the two of you had been given false information. An ambush was waiting for the two of you inside, some local bandits that felt threatened by your constant hustling. It had never occurred to you that there was competition in being thieves. 

The night passes you by, completely unawares. You don’t recall what happened after your friend was killed, right in front of you. The taste of iron burned a sour memory into your pallet as you ran into the woods, clutching at your own wounds. When you tried to call out for your horse, no sound escaped your mouth. You couldn’t hear the crunch of sticks under your boots or the bullets burying themselves into trees. 

You couldn’t remember the name of the town you were near, but you ran. And ran. 

* * *

After that remorseful night, you honed yourself to be better. To be more careful. To not slip. 

Two years pass before you see another familiar face again.

“Tacitus?” 

Your voice sounds stupid in your own ears as you speak aloud, and it doesn’t seem to reach him. You spend a few seconds studying the young man as he passes by before you will your words to be louder. 

“Hey!” you shout, and the familiar face finally turns to look at you, pulling his mare to a halt. His expression briefly changes from chiding to entertainable. You think he has a very confusing façade; can never read it. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you was followin’ me, little miss.” He tries his best to sound charming as you trot your stallion up next to his mare, keeping a small distance away. He has aged considerably, but so have you. Last time you saw him, you were horse racing in Bellmare, the beginning of your hustling career. Experience had aged your naïve looks into deft fingers and a quick trigger finger, a young bandit instead of a proper lady. 

“Hardly,” you retort, but he seems to catch the expression that takes over as you examine him. He is the perfect picture of what you imagine young bachelors to be, similar to the characters you read about in your favorite books. The thought makes you force a smile, trying to drown your mind from comparing him to memories of Valen. 

“You got somewhere to be, pretty boy?” you ask, fumbling with Fiamètte’s reins in your hands. The red horse shifts lazily underneath you, relaxed for once in the quiet nature of this small, dusty town. 

The nickname makes Tacitus grimace, and you nearly cough out a laugh at the sudden change. You expect him to walk his horse onwards, but instead he contently glances over to you, eyes bright under the shade of his hat. “Nothin’ too important,” he says with a lopsided smile. 

Together you hitch your horses in front of the local saloon. He acts like a gentleman as the two of you make your way inside, making way for you and escorting you to the bar. It’s unexpected, but a nice change in the way you think of him, you suppose. 

Over a few beers the two of you talk, each putting in the effort to get to know the other better. You learn that his name isn’t Tacitus, as you had suspected. His real name is Arthur Morgan. He tells you about the short time he spent living in an orphanage, which turns out to be close to your own experience (although you lived in one far longer than he did). In return, you tell him about your first adventures across the wasteland of New Austin. He chuckled a lot, entertaining how innocent your life seemed compared to his own. The two of you manage to strike a personal conversation at some point, and suddenly you find yourself spilling out your memories of Bellmare. 

You tell him about how you raced Fiamètte for a long while before moving to stealing and hustling people, and gambling alongside Valen. You tell him about how you two were partners in crime, essentially, and about the night he died. 

“Sounds like a lot for you, little lady,” Arthur sighs out before taking another swig of hot beer. “And to think, you were wearin’ a dress the first time I saw you.” 

Your eyes widen at his implication and you can’t help but smack his shoulder when your cheeks heat up. He grins at you, enjoying how easy it is to rile you up. The red tint on your face does nothing but encourage him. You try to pick up your conversation again. He is easily distracting you, and to your own internal horror, you realize you can’t blame the alcohol because your first beer is still in the same place on the table. Hardly touched. 

“I got a question,” you announce, and he only smiles slyly, waiting for you to continue. You wish he would stop doing that. 

“Can I come with you?” 

The question catches Arthur off guard. The flirty look in his eyes dulls, and now he is frowning at you. You frown right back to let him know you are serious. “You don’t even know me,” he mumbles, occupying himself with another casual swig of beer. His eyes study you when you shrug at his response. 

“If you were dangerous, you would’ve done somethin’ to me that night in the Del Lobo camp. You could’ve turned me in, could’ve shot me-“ 

“Wouldn’t have, even if I wanted to. Couldn’t risk wakin’ all of them up.” Arthur cuts you off, and he pushes himself up from the table. His fingers graze the pistol holstered at his side to make sure its secure, but the gesture has you gulp slightly. Regardless, you are close on his heels as he pushes his way through the saloon doors. He is doing his best to dismiss you, but you have nowhere else to go. 

“I don’t believe you,” you state firmly. You see the back of his head as he shakes it, but he still is walking towards his mare. You are still stomping after him, undeterred. Once he approaches the mare’s side, he quickly spins on his heels and slightly pushes you against the saddle, his arms blocking either side of you. The mare protests slightly at the sudden movement, and you stumble backwards when your body follows the shifting horse. Arthur is unconcerned, and intently keeps you trapped under his gaze. You can do nothing but stand there, staring into his eyes. 

Those eyes, you distinctly remember them from that fateful night. How, even in the dark, the iridescent blue and green stood out as a bright contrast to the shadows hiding the rest of his face. Even now, the sunlight of high noon makes them lighter, and you realize how beautiful yet how mischievous those eyes truly are. 

You begin to realize how close he is standing when he finally breaks the silence. “You don’t believe me?” he confirms, and you nod your head the slightest. That small movement is all it takes before his lips are crashing into yours. At first your mind contemplates telling your body to protest, but you decide against it. You need a change, a distraction from the hole that Valen left in your life. Of course, it was never like this with Valen. You hadn’t thought of him as a romantic partner, nor had you ever considered kissing him. He was your friend, but it was a true love. And now he is gone, and you are alone. If Arthur can make you not feel so alone, you’ll gladly suffer the consequences. Clearly lacking the practice that Arthur had, you slowly begin to kiss him back. It’s a learning process for you, but soon there’s a rhythm and your forcing him to step backwards. Arthur pauses when the two of you are left standing between his mare and your stallion, no longer using one as a support. He stops kissing you to flash a cocky grin, and immediately you know what he’s thinking. You stop him before he has time to speak it aloud. 

“I grew up surrounded by nuns for fourteen years of my life.” You remind him, a bit of an annoyed edge to your voice in attempt to knock him down a peg or two in his amusement. 

Arthur ignores the statement. He doesn’t step away, and instead says, “So you need a partner, huh?” His question surprises you. You didn’t think you would be able to convince him, and thought he would leave you stranded, left to wander the western frontier on your own as you had for the last two years. 

The two of you manage to drag each other into an alley between buildings, and it’s there that you experience a lot of things for the first time. The exchange is quick, but not rushed. Arthur makes sure you aren’t left hanging, even after his energy is spent. After you both come down from your separate climaxes, it’s a tense walk on the way back to your horses. 

“Arthur,” you speak, the first to break the ice. He had began fumbling with his saddlebags, a telltale sign that he was ready to ride. 

“Yes, darlin’?” he hums, but doesn’t look away from arranging his saddlebags. When he reaches up to adjust the mare’s reigns, you fumble to get words out. 

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” you start. There are more words ready to pour forth, but they come to an abrupt halt when he sends a sympathetic glance your way. “I can steal, ‘n I can shoot,” you continue, but he holds a hand up to stop you once he is mounted atop his horse. 

“I get it.” He says. “If you follow the road north from here, there’s a camp near the abandoned fort. Meet me at the fork when the sun sets.” With that, he spares you one last smile before kicking his mare into a trot. You are left standing with your chestnut stallion, staring at the dust Arthur’s horse kicks up as he rides out of the small town. 

It takes a moment to settle in, but slowly you smile at the words he left you with. Arthur certainly is a charming young bachelor, and you’re glad you’ll get to see more of him tonight. The fork in the road will be the start of your new chapter, and you hope it’s enough to leave behind the hard times and heartache.


	4. IV: Adjust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, two chapters in one day, that's a record. 
> 
> Chapter warnings: a dirty word, implied sexual content, animal death. Short chapter.
> 
> Unbeta'd! ;)
> 
> Sooo, reader is around 21 at this point in time, Arthur is mid twenties still, relatively. Also, your last name is Cline.  
> Please let me know if you have any suggestions, edits, or ideas! Let me know if it's too fast, too slow, not enough. Thanks so much for sticking to my story this far.

Over the next two years, you and Arthur work in a system. You had said you needed a partner, needed someone by your side to make the world feel a little less intimidating. Arthur had agreed to take you along with him, but it was different from how you imagined.

You come to find out he is travelling with two older men, by the names of Dutch and Hosea. They had taken Arthur in off the streets, after he ran away from the orphanage that abducted him not long after both his mother and father had passed. 

Arthur explained that you could come along with him, but you couldn’t let the men know you were following them. Avoid them at all costs, he said, because he doesn’t want any complications. “They can be dangerous,” you recall him saying. Instead of blazing the streets with Arthur, as you and Valen had done, you find yourself sneaking around when you yearn for a place to rest your head at night. When Arthur and his company commit a crime too deep and must pack up, you follow their tracks a few days later. Each time a new camp is settled, Arthur finds you and gives you his own canvas to pitch. He teaches you to build fires low so they can’t be seen from a distance, and how to put them out without causing smoke. 

The process is roughly lonely the first few months, but soon you take pride in your ability to find the group from a long distance. Your tracking skills become a golden trophy you possess proudly, and you are taught to build impressive shelters with sturdy wood branches. You are in constant contact with Arthur, often meeting him in a neighboring town when he can slip away from the two men. When they start to realize he is sneaking off a little too much, he tells you to lay low for a few days. 

Countless nights Arthur sneaks away when the sky turns black and Dutch and Hosea are asleep. Sometimes he will lay with you under the stars and chat, albeit stubbornly when you ask him to. Other times you will explore each other, each time marking something new on the maps that are your bodies. When he meets you in town, your trip ends with an intimate goodbye in the shadows of a gunsmith or grocery store. Sometimes he will pay for your room at a saloon when he leaves. 

And then there are some nights where you want to pull a gun on him for walking into your camp. Some of his town trips aren’t always to see you— young local girls sometimes will scoop him off the streets for a quick fling, and on those nights he doesn’t come to see you. It always leaves you bitter, especially when he tries to seduce other girls in front of you, but you tell yourself not to take it to heart. You don’t love him, and he is not your property. 

Sometimes you wish that was a lie. 

* * *

You find yourself in New Austin once again, but this time the wind is bitter with the promise of winter. Of course, no snowstorm ever finds itself raining on a desert, but you’re quick to realize you’d rather have fluffy snow rather than the ice-cold wind that often tears across your face as you cross the drylands. 

Arthur and his father figures had caused a ruckus in the county on the far side of Ambarino, past Colter and the snowy mountains. It was a small, ice-ridden town, and they robbed all the rich tourists inside their vacation homes there. Since then, you had been following them across the span of the country, through three feet of snow and across major rivers, until finally finding the familiar red sand of New Austin. 

Your horse, Fiamètte, was finally starting to show signs of fatigue from your travelling lifestyle. You blamed part of his declining health on yourself, since you raced him for a good year or so in order to make money. Crossing extreme terrain on sore fetlocks and hocks was finally starting to catch up with him, and you decided that you would retire him here in New Austin. It only seemed fitting to let him live the rest of his life in the very place where he allowed yours to begin. After all, you had been the one who stole him from the Macfarlane’s ranch. He was a faithful animal, never questioning anything you asked. You spend your time on the rocky trails appreciating the chestnut. From the tracks, you see that Arthur shouldn’t be too far away now. 

The night before you reach the camp destination, that nasty part of life that gnaws its teeth and spits at you finally catches up again. And it bites you hard, past flesh and to the bone. It’s a straight stretch down the desert path, and in the distance, you can barely see the silhouettes of tents. That must be where Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur are. You entertained the thought that if you set up camp here, you would be too close. At first, Arthur had wanted you to always be at least a half day’s ride away from where they were staying. As the two of you grew together in your newfound partnership, he began to be more lenient on the risks you took. After all, you would have to meet them eventually. 

You stop and turn your steed in the opposite direction, deciding to walk until you can no longer see them before you make camp. The bottom of a gully would work perfect to hide you from peering eyes on the horizon, blocked by rock wall. With that in mind, you tap the chestnut’s sides and he lopes forward at an easy pace. 

In the darkness ahead, you briefly think you see a lantern light appear, and then disappear not too far on the road. Squinting, you pull Fiamètte into a trot, and then a walk. Part of you thinks you see a large object blocking the road, but the darkness has always played tricks on your eyes. 

You only realize what it is when you are too close. The cock of a gun rings through your ears and you instantly will your horse to a halt. Shadows emerge from the side of the station wagon, which seems to have crashed. A lantern’s light creeps out from the wagon as well, and although you don’t move, your eyes catch a glimpse of a body under the vehicle. Your gulp is loud in your ears. 

“¡Alto ahí!” a voice shouts at you from behind cloth. Several more voices murmur through the darkness and you squeeze your eyes from for a moment. “Mírala a ella.” 

A bruising arm yanks your elbow down from your horse and the rest of you follows. A few of them snatch Fiamètte’s reins and walk him further into the dark, while the others keep you within the light of the lantern. You stay compliant, waiting for your chance to attack. Or run. 

“Shall we keep the horse?” you hear a voice ask from the other side of the road. There’s a pause, and you hear someone spit before speaking in Spanish, to which you can only half understand. “Quédate el caballo. No la guardes.” 

With that, someone shoves you to your knees, and your body is instantly thrown into the process of reaction when you feel the cold barrel of a rifle against your skull. You jump to knock the barrel off course, and you kick at the legs of your assailant. When you scramble to your feet, you knock the next figure with the handle of your pistol, straight to the temple. It buys you a few seconds of confusion, but not enough. Just as you think you can clear the side of the wagon, a blast rings through your ears and your body turns cold. 

You fall forward with the intent of getting up again, but as soon as you hit the ground, your injury springs to life. There isn’t enough time for you to roll over and examine yourself before someone is grabbing you again, and a powerful fist crashes into your cheek multiple times. The hit plunges you close to unconsciousness. 

The assailants seem to think you are deterred and rush to regroup with each other, harshly speaking their own language and rearranging their weapons. This gives you enough time to crawl towards your chestnut. It takes a lot of energy to drag yourself into his saddle, but when you finally do, your heels make quick work of his flank. 

You’re barely a few feet away from the crashed wagon before a rifle shot echoes across the wasteland once more, and the large body under you jolts and plummets to the ground. One well-aimed bullet found its mark behind Fiamètte’s elbow, right into his heart. Nothing registers in your mind even as you push yourself to your feet. You urge yourself to get closer to your horse, to be with him as he writhes and kicks his legs, but a bullet plunges into your stomach the moment you stand up. Suddenly you can’t tell if your eyes are open or closed, and you feel yourself spin into a harsh sleep. 

* * *

When light filters through your eyelids, you start to feel cold. A voice tries to reach your ears, but it’s hard to hear through the ambiance humming through your brain. 

You come to as your body begins to move. When you’re able to open your eyes, you wince slightly at the bright lantern next to you. “

"Shit! Wake up! C’mon, Cline, listen to me,” The voice is pleasant to your growing headache. It reacts violently to the intrusion of the lantern’s light when you open your eyes. It makes you immediately shut them again, and the simple act throws you back into your unconscious headspace. 

Arthur isn’t one who is quick to panic, but he isn’t sure if he can fix this one. He tries lightly shaking you, moves you to sit upright, but the weight of your limp body gives him his answer. He curses out into the night and smashes a fist into the rocky earth. You can’t die, he thinks. 

The decision he makes is a quick one. He must take you to Dutch and Hosea. He could say he found you like this, a stranger struggling in the aftermath of a crashed wagon. That is all he needs in order to convince himself. 

* * *

Dutch and Hosea are around the fire, intent on cooking breakfast to the early morning sunrise, when Arthur storms into camp. The pounding hooves that rush into camp have Dutch and Hosea on edge as soon as Arthur comes into view. 

Arthur’s mare slides to a halt near the tents when he cues her. She stands jittery as Arthur throws himself out of the saddle with you in his arms. “Arthur, son! What’s wrong?” Hosea asks, approaching on quick feet. A quizzical look flashes across his face when he sees Arthur carrying a petite frame. The young man plows through the thick shrubbery surrounding the tents, clutching you tightly. When he speaks, he tries to play it off, but his voice trembles too much. 

“I found her- the wagon crashed, she- she was on the side of the road, I wanted to help,” The words shake out of Arthur’s mouth, and he can’t move his eyes away from your pale skin. Not even Dutch’s booming voice can pull him out of his concentration on you. 

“Here, son, give her here!” Dutch quietly insists, and his arms snake around your frame to pull your body from Arthur. Arthur is left standing there, blood covering his sleeves. He watches Dutch carry you into his tent, Hosea on his heels with a crate of medical supplies. He doesn’t need to help or spectate, he thinks. It might result in spilling the truth, no matter how bad he wanted to know what they were doing in order to fix you. 

* * *

When Dutch and Hosea emerge, Arthur is sitting at the fire, head in his hands. The crunch of rocks alerts him of their presence, and immediately Arthur sits up. His face remains a cool façade, while his eyes ask a thousand questions when Hosea joins him on his right side. 

“I think she’ll pull through,” Hosea starts, making himself comfortable by the coffee filter, “had a nasty bullet in her stomach. I don’t think the wagon crash was an accident.” He fumbles with a can of coffee grounds. Dutch takes his seat across from Hosea and lights up a cigar from earlier in the day. 

“It’s tough-“ Dutch takes a drag on his cigar, “dealing with the criminals ‘round here.” He refers to your attack and exhales a large cloud of smoke. 

“We’ll fit in _just_ fine.”


	5. V: Cold Things Do Melt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooo, hey y'all. Today is another double-update.
> 
> This is kind of a meaty chapter, and so is the next one, but in a good way. Not too lengthy, but the content is important. 
> 
> Also, you say your name at some point, just disregard my attempt to make this an OC story. You can put whatever name there you want, but Cline will be the reoccuring part. 
> 
> As always, un-beta'd. Let me know what you guys think. You are all awesome.

When you finally start to stir from the tent, the sun is high in the sky. The sunshine had removed the overnight frost that settled across the desert, and the wind is warmer than it had been. Your eyes take in your surroundings before you think about getting up.

There’s a tall, slender man stationed in front of the dying campfire directly by your tent. He is a dark brunette and wears sporty riding clothes, similar to Arthur’s usual outfits, you note. You can’t see anyone else without moving too much, but you can hear the man responding to a younger voice from across the fire. 

You glance at the bandages around your torso, and you move to swing your legs out of the cloth bed to test the tenderness. Immediately you figure out there is an intrusion along the top of your navel, near your hip. The pain is so intense you can’t help but hiss through your teeth, but you are committed to sit upright. The conversation near the campfire suddenly dies, and soon you see Arthur pacing towards you. His eyebrows are furrowed in a seriousness you have never seen on him before. It’s almost… sincere, and personal. 

“You’re up,” Arthur breathes, as if relaxing for the first time, “how do you feel?” 

His tone is dangerously neutral. The thought crosses your mind that Arthur probably didn’t tell them who you were, that he knew you. And now it’s up to you to play a convincing role as well. 

“Not good,” you croak, wincing at the irritation radiating from your wound. You see his muscles twitch like he is about to walk forward to help you, but he catches himself. Willing yourself to not meet his eyes, you turn to finally meet Hosea and Dutch as they approach. 

“Good afternoon!” Hosea chimes, ducking under the lean-to in order to kneel next to you. He raises his hands tentatively, silently asking your permission to check your bandages. You relax and move your arms out of his way in agreement. “You gave Arthur here quite a scare, young lady.” Hosea softly chides, and you sneak a look in Arthur’s direction. Dutch is standing off to the side, turned so that the smoke from his cigar vents away from the tent. He drags on it silently but shares a look between you and Arthur. Those dark eyes of his are scrutinizing, and you take it he is a very good at reading people. The thought makes you swallow dryly, and you tear your eyes away from them. 

“What… what happened last night?” you ask aloud, grasping for any of them to fill you in. 

“I found you after your wagon had crashed,” Arthur admits, allowing himself a long look at you. He is pretending still, you can tell. “Got there just in time, it looks like.” 

Hosea nods in agreement and finally ceases his examination of you. “Dutch and I tried our best to get that bullet out,” he explains, “nasty little sucker. Had to cut your wound a bit for the tweezers to get in deep.” You wince at the visualization, but are thankful for their efforts. 

“Thank you,” your smile is forced, and you feel like you need to make an attempt to walk to your horse- 

“Wait,” the blurt is soft but abrupt coming from your mouth. “did you bring my horse back?” Your eyes move to Arthur in question. He frowns at you but serves the news at face value. 

“Weren’t no horse alive when I got there, ma’am.” He watches you closely, and your reaction is what he expects. The shock makes your face stiffen, but you try to ignore it in front of Dutch and Hosea. You were hoping the scene that played out last night was just some fever dream. 

“I don’t think you should be going anywhere anytime soon, if I may make a suggestion,” Dutch finally speaks, snuffing his cigar out on the side of his boot. He stashes what is left of it in his jacket and turns to face Arthur and Hosea. “Not by yourself, at least,” he adds, contemplating the choices of your situation. Arthur’s words ring in your head, about how these men are dangerous, and you’re sure that even if you can’t see it now, he was telling the truth. You don’t want to stay in their sights any longer than you must; you wish your injury wasn’t so severe. One look at Arthur tells you he is trying to think of a way out of the situation as well, but not for the same reason. 

Hosea starts to suggest that you can stay another night, to make sure infection doesn’t set in. He isn’t confident about the cut he made on your stomach, and although he leaves the choice up to you, he would rather you not move as much as possible. It’s uncomfortable, especially since Arthur had lectured you so many times about how if the two of you could play it right, you would never have to meet Dutch and Hosea. They seem kind in their actions, but you try not to let yourself think that. Arthur had his reasons for warning you about them, right? 

Compliantly you agree to stay overnight, and your body is thankful. The incision from the bullet grows angrier the more you stay awake and your skin pales whiter throughout the day. The two older men leave you alone for most of the day, to the point where if you close your eyes, you can pretend your in camp completely alone. Arthur doesn’t go out with Dutch and Hosea when they leave. He hovers around camp, fiddling with the fire or standing to stare at you nervously. It’s almost comical, you think, to see Arthur so truly distraught. It’s a rapid change from his usual alluring nature, all smirks and coy remarks and promising touches. He comes to check on you every time you fall asleep, and the more time he has to kill, the more he spends it worrying. 

Arthur didn’t like the idea of commitment, as every young bachelor claims. He has never been so close to it before, so within its reach, and it shakes him. He has never brought a girl back to camp, to meet his family, and although your situation was an emergency, it does nothing but haunt him. He spends the day thinking while you sleep. Dutch and Hosea, even though Arthur thinks the two of you have managed to hide the fact that you know each other, are aware of you now. If they decide to ask you questions, to get to know you while you spend time recovering in their camp, someone will eventually slip. Yes, Arthur knows he cares about you, but the closer you manage to get, the harder the repercussions will be if something ever happens to you. Like now, for instance. Life had never slapped him so hard in the face like the night he found you laying there, cold on the ground. In a matter of seconds, you became all that mattered to him. 

That was a weakness he couldn’t afford. He had remained untouchable over the years, sleeping with young beautiful women and dashingly leaving them to return to a life of crime the next morning. Some have asked him to stay, and he has told some about bits and pieces of his life. Never had he let any of them affect him, though. Until you, it turns out. 

It’s aggravating, he thinks. Despite his efforts to occupy himself with other girls, sometimes even right in front of you, he still manages to miss you every night that he doesn’t get to see you. The days that he spends assuming that you are successfully tracking them are torturous; he hates it. 

The one thing he can do to keep you from getting too close is to make sure Dutch and Hosea never meet you. They would be enthralled to meet you, to discover you’re a good aim, a gambler, and able to bring Arthur down to Earth. He knows all of this. And the only way he protects himself is by saying, “They’re dangerous. Don’t let them see you, ever. Just set up camp a day’s ride from us and I will find you.” Every time Dutch or Hosea speaks to you, he silently prays that they don’t pry too much, and that you don’t give in to being friendly. They would enjoy your company too much to let you leave, especially if they knew you are the one Arthur always sneaks out to be with. 

Twilight starts to settle across the desert sky by the time Dutch and Hosea stroll back into camp on their horses. They are hooting about the small antelope Hosea managed to hunt on the way home, boasting about deer meat stew. Arthur had been sitting next to you in the tent, studying you to make sure your health wasn’t getting any worse the more you slept. He quietly slips outside when the men arrive, and he walks over to hoist the antelope off of Hosea’s turkoman. 

“Manage to find some road kill, did you?” Arthur snides, jabbing at Hosea’s hunting abilities (which were far better than his own). He and Hosea string the lanky animal from a dead tree nearby in order to skin it. 

“When I’m in charge of diner, road kill isn’t on the menu- unlike you, young man.” Hosea chuckles, prompting Dutch to bring up the countless awful meals Arthur has cooked before. The young man quickly retracts his sarcasm, wishing to be spared the stories they have retold him hundreds of times. 

Arthur skins the deer adequately with Hosea’s supervision, and gains a comment about how much he has improved. It isn’t long before Hosea asks how you’ve been doing throughout the day. 

“She’s holdin’ it together,” Arthur drawls, walking the supplies for dinner over to Dutch. “Hasn’t moved much, but keeps losing blood.” He recalls earlier when he stubbornly forced himself to redo your bandaging while you were asleep. The paler you grew, the more it ate his nerves down to the bone. Although he doesn’t want to care, he does, and he couldn’t just let you lay there in dirty wrappings. 

“It keeps bleedin’, might need to cauterize it.” Dutch chimes in, slicing portions of meat to be used for the stew. It’s an option, Arthur knows, but he hopes it doesn’t come to that. Hosea was forced to cauterize one of Arthur’s wounds after a violent gunfight and pursuit, and Arthur didn’t wish that kind of pain onto anybody. 

Later on into the night, your body finally wills itself out of the sleeping trance you succumbed to. You’re awake just in time to hear more voices gathered around the fire and are taken aback by the womanly nature of the sounds. Had more people showed up? 

As you adjust your posture, once again attempting to throw your legs over and sit up straight, you slide the jacket you had been using as a pillow over your shoulders. It smelled of iron, and by now the bloodstains had seeped into a dark color within the fabric. You scrunch your nose at it, although you aren’t about to walk around in your torn shirt without it. 

When you squeeze past the prickly shrubs that surround the tent, the warm orange glow of the fire illuminates your skin and you can clearly see everyone gathered around the light source. Arthur sits at the head of the fire, deep into a funny conversation with a redheaded woman that is hanging off Hosea’s arm. Dutch is paying full attention to the curly-headed blonde that sits next to him, the two talking quieter than the rest of the group. The final person you don’t recognize is shuffling behind the scene, rearranging a newly sprouted tent. Through the dark you can see that the woman fashions a large abundance of dark hair at the top of her head, pulled neatly into an up-do. 

The longer you stand, the more your side protests. It makes you hiss, a whisper barely pressed past your teeth, but it manages to draw attention. The redhead sitting next to Hosea glances over at the source of the noise and shakes Hosea’s arm. She nods in your direction, and part of you feels like slinking back into the dark of the tent. 

“Ah! She lives!” Hosea boasts, startling from his seat on a log to help you over. This draws the rest of the camp’s attention, and the loudness quickly dies. It makes you draw into yourself, and your eyes immediately search for Arthur. Your gaze locks with his over the flickering flames, and his ocean orbs change from something lighthearted to a look of seriousness. His expression doesn’t change, but you can see the edge in his eyes. 

Hosea offers his arms out to you and helps you over to a log near the fire. He hands you a tin mug and lightly pats your back before returning to his seat. You are grateful when the water from the cup touches your lips and down most of it. 

“How are you feeling, miss?” Dutch’s baritone voice is soothing to your ears. All eyes are on you, except for Arthur’s. 

“Well, I’m alive, thanks to you two,” you start, offering a tense smile to the older men. 

“You’re lucky Arthur found you, from what I hear.” The woman that was arranging the tent earlier walks towards you, and you politely make room for her to sit next to you. She sits down with a motherly smile and starts to examine you. Her hands are slightly calloused but gentle as they touch your face, and she turns your head to examine the angry purple and red that blots your right cheek. “Goodness, dear,” she murmurs. “I’m sure it hurts, but I think you’ll be quite alright.” 

“Susan Grimshaw,” the lady says, briefly touching your arm before she is standing up to busy herself once more. “In a bit I’ll make sure Hosea didn’t butcher that stomach o’yours,” Susan chides when she turns her back, earning a chuckle from everyone around the campfire. 

“That would be me,” Hosea starts, realizing that there has yet to be proper introductions. “And I assure you my stitch is pretty damn good despite what that monster of a woman says, although I had to improvise on materials.” The comment draws a small laugh from you. It comforts you to know that the stiffness of your injury comes from the supposed stitching (in which you don’t remember receiving), but occasionally you can feel the wetness still oozing from the laceration. 

“This here is Bessie,” Hosea looks to the redheaded woman sitting against him. She is soft looking for an outlaw, you think, but she offers a warming smile. “That there is Dutch and Annabelle,” he nods to Dutch and the blonde woman next. “And Arthur,” he ends with the most familiar face, and you internally remind yourself to act like you didn’t know anything about these people. Many times, Arthur would easily keep you up throughout the night telling stories of Hosea and Dutch, but he never put names to the rest of the crew. In fact, you thought he only travelled with the two men. 

Arthur nods his head, but he doesn’t look up, and instead sulks himself into the wood he is whittling with a knife. You aren’t sure why Arthur is suddenly acting like a brick wall. You know he never intended for you to meet these outlaws, but seeing as your horse was killed, and your injury is still festering, you don’t have much of a choice. The memory of Fiamatte tugs at your heart painfully, and you are glad when someone pulls you out of your thoughts. 

“What should we call you, miss? Only seems fitting that we know the name of our house guest.” The blonde, Annabelle, speaks out to you. 

“Constance Cline,” you announce. Your instincts make you contemplate giving them a fake name, like Arthur had made you practice during your travels, but these were his people. He would probably prefer you to be honest with them. “It’s nice to meet all of you.” 

You spend your time chatting with everyone, and a few hours pass into the night before your injury starts to protest sitting upright for so long. Dutch entertains you with stories, most of which you had heard from Arthur before. The ladies tell you about their lives on the road, and you do the same. Arthur occasionally would pipe in, but mostly kept himself in a conversation with Susan. 

When you can no longer bare the pain throbbing from your side and stomach, you force yourself to turn in. Dutch tells you not to worry about claiming his tent. You need it more than him, he says, and you are thankful. Susan and Hosea follow you to your tent, intent on checking that your stitches are up to par. 

Susan’s careful fingers gently unwrap the bandages strung across your abdomen, and for the first time you get a good look at the bullet wound. It missed your true stomach organs, and lies just above your hipbone, to the side of your bellybutton. It goes deep, and takes the form of a messy, jagged line as your skin tries to grow back to itself. The cut was essential for making room for tweezers, Hosea had explained. He managed to fish the bullet out but was concerned about the depth of damaged tissue. 

When the tautness of the wraps is released, you feel blood churning from deep inside the bullet cavity. It makes you tense, and you have to loll your head back onto your shoulders to cope with their prodding. A thin fishing line holds the skin of the cut together, and while the handiwork is nice, the fishing line is too old to deal with the acidity of your blood. With some rougher prodding, Susan can tell it won’t hold up much longer. 

“I think we’ll need to redo the stitching,” she murmurs in concentration. “I used the best thing I had at the time. I’m not sure we have anything else that’ll hold up better,” Hosea counters, studying over Susan’s shoulder. 

“I’ll take her to Tumbleweed in the morning. Should be someone there that can help.” His voice is hard, and when you open your eyes you can see that he is wincing at your suture. He must be worried. 

* * *

You don’t get much sleep by the time the sun starts to rise. They had decided to leave the stitching in overnight, knowing that it was better than having nothing to hold the skin together. Unable to get comfortable, your constant shuffling caused the fishing line to break apart under your shirt. You convinced Susan and Hosea to leave it uncovered to let the wound get some air, and when you wake up to a burning torso and bloody shirt, you wish you had said otherwise. 

Arthur finds you already awake when he ducks into your tent to get you up. 

“Rise n’ shine,” he drawls, but stops short when he sees you sitting up, frowning at the blood that had seeped from the broken suture. “Mornin’” you mumble, but you are too occupied with pressing your hands over the wound. He curses under his breath before he joins you at your side. 

“You alright?” he asks, and you’re glad to hear that his voice is softer than it has been. He kneels next to you, and you nearly melt into him when he holds an arm across you for support. The heat that radiates from his skin is comforting, and after a whole night of churning, you wish you could just lay with him. 

When you nod, Arthur prompts you to stand, keeping his arm against you in case you need it. You’re glad for his arm when you stand; your knees are weak, and a headache immediately starts to bloom across your forehead when you stand upright. The sensation makes you nauseous, but you forcefully swallow the feeling. 

“C’mon, let’s go.” His voice is quiet next to your ear as he helps you out of the tent. Your muscle memory starts to come back the longer you walk, but you dread the thought of climbing onto his horse. Boadicea isn’t far away. You take a moment to lean against her while you wait for Arthur to get mounted. Her coat is well-groomed, and you can feel the muscles that move underneath her hide as she lifts her head from gnawing at the hitching post. Upon further inspection, you notice a small braid tucked under the saddle pad, near her withers. It would be impossible to see if you weren’t close enough to her. This brings a smile to your lips, and it grows when you realize it was tucked away in order to be hidden. Arthur clears his throat, and you pretend that you weren’t smiling at anything. He reaches an arm down for you and you grip it tightly. He has to use most of his strength to haul you up, but he does it with ease. You make sure not to kick Boadicea with your flailing feet as you readjust yourself to fit into the saddle in front of Arthur. It’s a tight squeeze, but Arthur doesn’t trust that you won’t fall off if he leaves you in charge of holding onto him from the back. 

When Arthur cues Boadicea into a canter, you instantly hope it isn’t a long ride. Your hips are forced to flex with the movement of the mare underneath you, and every stride feels like your suture is torn wide open. Arthur wants to slow down to make the ride easier on you, but he decides that getting there quicker will be worth it for your sake. “Bear with me,” he murmurs sympathetically, moving a hand to splay across your abdomen to steady you. The contact is comforting, but only for a short while. Even that starts to hurt, too. You rest your head back against his chest, and he responds by pressing you closer. 

The mare roughly slows to a stop near the drug store. Arthur leans forward, you brace against the horses neck until he slides out of the saddle. He reaches to help you, but instead of letting you step down he simply picks you up. You frown at the gesture, although he means well by it. You don’t like being dependent on him or to seem like you are too weak. 

When he walks through the door, the medical assistant holds an office door open for the two of you. Inside the doctor is blowing cigarette smoke through a crack in the window. He leaves the butt inside the windowsill before walking over to meet you. Arthur sets you in the doctor’s chair carefully, and steps out of the way. The doctor asks you questions as you begin to reveal what lies under your bloody shirt. 

“Bullet,” is all you manage to say at first. Your fingers tremble as you painfully take pressure off your abdomen, and Arthur steps closer to help you. His knuckles graze your skin when he lifts the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric away from the laceration. 

“Got it stitched n’ didn’t hold,” Arthur sighs, still holding your shirt up and out of the doctor’s way. 

“How long has it been bleeding?” the doctor asks, pressing spectacles down from his forehead. His fingers work with a pair of tweezers in order to retrieve the stray fishing line from your skin. “Bout a day.” Arthur says, and the doctor nods in confirmation. 

“I’m going to cauterize this,” he states, walking away momentarily to grab equipment. “It will also burn out any signs of infection, and from there the skin will be able to heal normally.” He busies himself with lighting an oil lamp and waits patiently for a small rod to heat above it. Arthur moves to hold one of your hands and gives it a tight squeeze, to comfort the both of you. 

The doctor announces when the rod is finally hot enough for operation. Your body tenses in response as the doctor walks over and sits next to you with the hot metal. He doesn’t hesitate to press the rod straight into the deepest part of the wound. You squirm, even though you will your body to stay still. A hiss makes it past your lips, and you grind your teeth together with impossible force to keep any other noises down. The doctor repeats this process a few more times to make sure none of the skin is left open. Arthur holds tight onto your hand the entire time, wincing each time you squirm in his grip. 

“No more stitches,” the doctor says, tossing the rod onto a nearby counter. He moves the spectacles onto his forehead once more. “This will stay closed on its own as long as you don’t strain it. You would benefit from a few days of rest, and if possible, no travelling.” 

You’re allowed a few minutes of rest before Arthur prompts you to move. “Think you can get up?” he asks, holding his arms out again for you to use. You force yourself to oblige. Arthur steadies you and nods his thanks to the doctor as the two of you leave. 

Arthur has you confused when the two of you walk past his horse. He feels your weight falter, and the two of you pause in the middle of the street. 

“Where are we goin’?” you ask, reaching up to wipe some of the sweat from your face. The infernous pain at the sight of the cauterization had your whole body stiff, and despite the sweat on your face, you felt cold. 

“Ah,” Arthur starts, his voice sounding a little off, “Figured I’d get ya a room at the hotel. Doctor’s orders call for rest.” He starts walking again and the weight of your body follows groggily. You dread the thought of staying in town, but your body yearns for nothing more than a soft down mattress. 

The host at the hotel gladly assigns a room when Arthur tosses some coin onto the counter. Before you can dread the trip up the stairs, Arthur carefully picks you up and carries you to the room. You are forever grateful for your partner, for him. 

When he helps you onto the bed and gives you a drink of water from his hide canteen, you can’t help but immediately want to fall asleep. Every muscle in your body relaxes and the ache of everything is somewhat relieved. Arthur places his worn hat onto the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed, close to you. His calloused fingers gently brush some of the sweat-slick hair from your forehead. Your heart flutters at the sentiment in the gesture, and then turns into a wild rhythm when he leans forward and plants a chaste kiss on your lips. One of your hands finds its way to his forearm and dances across the blonde hair there, a gesture of appreciation and comfort. 

“Get some rest, darlin’.” Arthur encourages in a soft voice, barely more than a whisper. Your eyes hold those familiar green-blue orbs for as long as possible, not quite wanting to leave him yet. “I’ll run back to camp, tell the others you’ll be okay.” 

“Okay,” you sigh, eyelids feeling heavy. He gives you a small nod and shifts his weight to stand. 

“Arthur,” you say, reaching forward to grab his hand before he can move out of reach. “Thank you.” 

He looks down at you, and for the first time in a few days, you see him smile. It’s barely there, and if you were anyone else, you wouldn’t have seen it. But you know it’s there. You know from the way his fingers tighten oh so slightly around your own. The corner of his mouth quirks a little, but it quickly retreats into something solemn. 

“Don’t thank me, Cline.” 

You watch him place his hat on his head before leaving the room. You hear the door click into place before you are plunged into sleep.

* * *

When you wake, you aren’t sure how long it has been since you fell asleep. The unpleasant ache is immediately struck back into your bones, and as your senses start to wake with the rest of your body, your wound feels suffocating.

On instinct, you glance at the nightstand. Arthur’s hat is not there like you had hoped. He is not resting in the chair in the corner, nor on the floor. You began to wonder if he had slept at all when your eyes find a piece of paper sitting where you had just looked, on the nightstand.

You fully sit up to reach for it, and wince at the tightness plaguing your side. It is a note, folded neatly for you to find.

 

* * *

_Cline,_

_I trust that you heed some understanding as you read this letter, but I fear you will not. I don’t expect you to understand my own foolishness, nor do I expect you to endure it. I hope you can find it within yourself to forgive and forget. Forgiveness isn’t necessary, but I must ask you to forget._

_Forget that I dragged you into this life, gave you a bed to sleep in, gave you false hope that we could be an item. I won’t deny that we never were anything, because we were. I cared for you, still care for you, and that right there is the reason I leave you this letter. It is terrifying to care as much as you and I do for each other. Call me a fool, but call me a coward as well, because I cannot endure the fear of keeping you._

_You can imagine my surprise when my family, Dutch, Hosea, all of them, took to you like a moth to a flame. I know you must be wondering why I kept them away if they aren’t as dangerous as I had told you. Truth is, while they are dangerous in their own ways, I feared they would meet you and I feared they would love you. If they loved you, you wouldn’t be able to leave them. Yes, I am leaving you, and they will not know anything of this letter save for Hosea. They will not know about you and I. But this does not mean that I don’t care._

_I care so much. Caring is weakness, and in our line of work, weakness can be the very thing that kills you. While I’m not scared to die, I am scared that those I love will die first. This is for your own good, for your protection._

_The gang will be packing up in the morning, and we will be leaving New Austin. Don’t bother tracking us, because I will make sure that you are not able to. Cline, thank you for the fun we’ve had. You’re a hell of a gambler, of a burglar, I imagine you will do just fine on your own, as you had before me. Please, go find yourself a partner that is not as foolish as I. Find someone that is not scared to keep you close._

_I imagine I will forever regret this. But it is for you, for your protection. You have given me your heart many times, and each time I used it before handing it back. Do not forgive me for it. I will attempt to do better in my own life, and I hope your heart will heal from my abuse. You are strong. You are beautiful. I’m confident I will not be the only one to have loved you._

_-Arthur._

* * *

 

Tears had stung your eyes halfway through the letter and spilled forward as you finally folded the parchment back to its original shape. They were a mix of bitterness and heartfelt. The simple fact that he had worked with Hosea to write you a letter instead of leaving you blindly was some small encouragement in itself, but it didn’t erase the fact that you were alone. Yet again. The whole world is at your fingertips, and yet you are scared to dive into the ocean by yourself.

You thought you finally did it. You had found where you were meant to be, at Arthur’s side, making small money here and there, enjoying his warmth on the nights that he could get away. He was impressed with you, how you fit so snuggly into the puzzle piece of being an outlaw. It made life fun, made it worth living. The nights you slept alone for several days while Arthur was not able to see you, although they felt long in the moment, you look back and realize those lonely nights were nothing compared to the vast emptiness you felt now. Now, all your nights would be without him. You wouldn’t have a path to follow, no tracks to map, no one to meet in town. It was back to square one, and this time Fiamètte wasn’t here to help.

The hotel clerk notifies you of several nights that had been prepaid when you manage to painfully lurch your way downstairs. Arthur must have paid for you to stay here a few more days, in thought of your injury, no doubt. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t deal with the shame, embarrassment, whatever it was you were feeling. It was living in the hotel room in which you had slept, and you couldn’t stay in it any longer.

You go back upstairs to gather your things. The letter burns your fingertips as you take it, tuck it into your satchel safely. It sets fire to your whole face, and you rush to gather up the things Arthur had undoubtedly brought from camp. The saddlebags set in a wooden chair in the corner, and you contemplate leaving them there when you realize some of Fiamètte’s red fur is still on them. This brings more tears to the surface as you toss them over your shoulder, ignoring the protest in your side. Your cotton shirt is still stained with blood from when Arthur had found you.

In one giant mess, you walk downstairs and step out of the hotel. Your heart lurches when your eyes take in the familiar color of Arthur’s horse, still standing at the hitching posts in front of the hotel. The sight nearly makes you wretch, nerves clearly fried and unable to deal with seeing him if he was lurking around. But the rational part of you tells you something. He wouldn’t be here. In fact, he likely wouldn’t be fifty miles near here by now. Which meant that he had left you Boadicea.

Even when dishing heartbreak, Arthur still manages to act a gentleman.

When you approach Boadicea, you heave your saddlebags onto her and strap them behind the seat of your saddle. You tentatively reach out to stroke her dappled hide, glowing bright and golden in the midday sun. Her eyes are dark and calm, and something in them anchors your own emotions. Ignoring the fire stemming from your wound, you reach up to grab the horn of the saddle and prepare to pull yourself up. Your eyes catch a glimpse of that white braid in Boadicea’s mane, frayed slightly but still there, hidden near the saddle. Instinct has your fingers brushing along the white braid, and your bitterness tempts you to pull the strands free.

But you leave it.


	6. VI: In Solitude, You Shall Prevail (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter that will have two parts. Why? Because I have no self control and love posting this as fast as possible. I promise I won't bore you too long with my husky, angsty OC insert.
> 
> Not much to this chapter, but the next shall be longer, I promise. Also, heads up for another imaginary town. Whoops.
> 
> I love you all. Thanks so much for reading!

Four years pass before you finally get back into the groove of life.

It is a hard transition, after spending several years with Arthur, gunning and robbing and always knowing you’ll have a camp set where you were supposed to be. He finessed you out of your juvenile years, molded you into the adolescent he had come to care so much for. You had forced him to do some growing within those few years as well. Not having the stability that Arthur provided was one of the worst cases of whiplash you had ever lived through.

When you travel, you never settle in one place longer than a week. Before, you had been naïve, and were on the verge of making a small name for yourself in Bellmare when you stuck around to dive into horse racing. You had grown to know which locals were rich, knew which ones didn’t like you, and recognized kids that adored your chestnut stallion. There would be none of that this time, you decided. When you would rob locals, it would not be because you knew they had money. Shaping into a true outlaw, you rob people on the hope that they have something of worth and talk yourself out of the guilt later. Some people you choose to terrorize are poor folk, which is unintentional, but you never walk away without something.

You steer clear of the places you know: Bellmare, New Austin, and that mining town you and Valen had stayed in. You still couldn’t recall the name of that place, and never wanted to.

 

* * *

 

Owensburrow is a small town nestled between two snowy mountains, along the same range as the Grizzlies, but hopefully as far away from those lands as you would ever be. The winter air is enough to numb your digits if you leave your gloves off for too long. Boadicea has grown in her winter coat, which is dull but fluffy in comparison to what it used to be.

Ice and snow cover the trodden dirt paths throughout the town. You carefully guide Boadicea along, but she is a sure-footed animal and does well with judging the depth of snow and slickness of ice. Despite the road conditions, you find that the town is bustling when you arrive.

Women and children bundle themselves in thick wool and step out into the crisp air. Men are building cabins, hauling carts of wood and produce, and locals fill the streets with chatter. Horses trot through the cold mud, white clouds puffing from their nostrils and swishing their tails energetically.

You had heard some idle talk in a saloon about a gang of outlaws that had made a home among these mountains, just around the town of Owensburrow. With no intentions of coming across whoever they were, you chose to make camp on a high peak that overlooked the town and the surrounding country. The small bounty on your head didn’t let you feel comfortable enough to stay in the middle of town. Bounties spread very easily, but you suspect the farther you travel the safer you will be from getting recognized.

The fire in your camp is higher than you normally like to keep it, but your numb digits are testimony enough to needing warmth among the icy peaks of the Grizzlies. Sunny rays do nothing to touch the snow up here- it is unyielding to the heat, and only makes it harder to stay warm even in the middle of the day. You make trips into town as needed to buy hay for Boadicea and hunt down your meals the rest of the time.

At night, you toss and turn inside your bedroll, adjusting to wear your thick coat for an extra layer when you sleep.

On the fourth night near Owensburrow, you wake up to rustling outside of your tent.

Silent as possible you peel yourself from your bed roll, hands instinctively and gently finding the pistol you keep tucked near. You barely peek through the flaps of canvas to see dark figures passing in front of Boadicea. Her gold stands out against the dark of night, but it isn’t enough for you to fully see who you are up against. The independent movements of each silhouette tells you there are at least three people outside, and faintly you can see the straps of a rifle hanging from one.

You curse inwardly. They could be bounty hunters. Or the outlaws you had heard about. There were two options: silently reveal yourself and lay your weapon down, or get the jump on them. After years of learning, you know your gut would rather have you come out with guns blazing.

And you do just that.

When a figure slinks past Boadicea, you time it before jumping out from your tent and firing at it. The shot is loud, rings in your ears, as does do the returning gun shots. Boadicea jumps, frightened from her leisure meal, and she tosses her head before spinning and stepping away. You yell and tell her to go further, not wanting her to be caught in the crossfire.

Crunching boots against the gravel of the cliff tells you that there are a few more members than you thought, but you could handle it. The fire from the end of a pistol momentarily illuminates one figure, and you shoot, satisfied with the thump that echoes after. You run towards the small embers that remain in the fire and use a boot to kick them onto a figure approaching you. It doesn’t do much, because everyone is dressed thickly for winter, but it gives you a second to dodge the punch they throw. You strike the silhouette in the back, pushing them down into the embers where you had just stood.

Someone wraps their arms around you from behind immediately as you turn away from the man covered in embers, and you throw your weight around to knock them off balance. They are strong, and your attempt fails, so instead you use your feet to kick their ankles and trip them. It is all a mess of punches and limbs, but when the figure falls onto their back, you fall with them, still in their grip. The slate rock underneath tells you that the edge of the cliff is very near.

The figure rolls on top of you while they still have you in their grip, but you keep the momentum going and roll on top of them instead. You land one punch to the pale face beneath you. Your next punch lands straight into the ground, and you hiss at the impact the stone has on your knuckles. Once again, the person flips positions, and straddles you. Before you have time to maneuver out of the position or block the attacks, their fist connects with your cheeks a few times. When you feel blood pool in your mouth, their hands grab your throat and hold you there, but not with enough force to choke you.

“Boys! Over here.” The voice above you calls over his shoulder, calm and authoritive. It isn’t long after before the yellow glow of a lantern illuminates everything in your eyesight. When you stare up at the face, at the arms holding you down and the body restraining you, you choke on the blood that had collected in your mouth. Your eyes a wide, like you are staring at a ghost. Because you are.   

There is no denying the features that stare down at you. For a second, your mind tricks you into thinking the light is only distorting the actual identity in front of you, but it can’t be. You know what you see is not a mirage when the face of the man slacks, and he stares back at you in the same way. A puff of white escapes through the man’s mouth, and you blink up in shock.

It’s Valen.

It can’t be, but it is. Those familiar black strands fall evenly over his forehead, save for the roughness of the tussle. Those eyes, they look like the light green of the sea, like the color you find so fond inside the memories of your best friend.

Tears immediately blur your vision, and you aren’t sure if it is from shock, sadness, or relief.

“Val?” you breathe, barely above a whisper, scared that you will be wrong or wake up from a dream if you speak too surely, too loudly.

“Oh my god,” is all Valen can choke out before he pulls your shoulders to him. The embrace is so human, so warm, and you feel as though the two of you might break. Your knuckles bury into the wool around his neck, white from the strain. Your forehead presses to his chest. When the hammering of your heart slows, you hear his own heart song.

It is beating. Thumping. Living.


	7. VI: In Solitude, You Shall Prevail (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have fun reading this one. 
> 
> Finals are sneaking up, so I'm not sure how quality this will be. I've only been able to write for a few minutes at a time. Might be a little on the short side, but the content should be good. 
> 
> I will likely add more to this, but for now I will just post it for an update.
> 
> P.S, I love Valen. I hope y'all do too.

The next few moments don’t seem real. You know it’s him, but how? There are a thousand questions burning in your head, but only one escapes your bruised lips.

“How are you alive?”

It is hardly more than a whisper. He tells his men to back off, and they give the two of you room by stepping back. Val doesn’t answer your question; you know it is too much for him to explain in the moment. Instead, his eyebrows form a line of worry as he inspects the damage he inflicted.

There is already a purple bruise forming on your jawline, but the rest of your skin is only red with inflammation. Your bottom lip is busted, you discover that when your tongue flicks to the split in the flesh. It forces you to spit the remaining blood out of your mouth.

He opens his mouth, and immediately you know he is going to apologize for beating you up.

“It’s okay Val,” you say quietly, still not sure if your voice is in working condition. Your eyes do nothing but search those foamy green depths, wishing you could mend every insecurity and all the guilt you find there. You give him an aloof grin. “I think I did equal damage,” you say, cold fingers reaching up to caress the black eye that has already began to form. A drop of blood leaks from the edge of his mouth, and you wipe it away.

The two of you stay like this for a few more moments, finding warmth when your foreheads touch.

***

Val takes you back to the camp he and his followers had set up, several miles north from where you had settled. It is a quiet ride on the back of his horse, far too cold to make conversation, you think. Instead of speaking through your numb lips, you find solitude and comfort during the ride, hiding your hands under the warmth of Val’s jacket and enjoying the presence of a body against you. Solid, steady. Real.

There is a large cabin on a cliffside that comes into view, and the group encourages their horses up the steep path to get to it. It is large and abandoned, taken over by the weather by many years, it would seem. There is smoke rising from the chimney, and you are internally grateful to have shelter from the cold.

When Val stops his horse, he offers a hand to you and you slide off the steed’s side smoothly. You make your way over to the others as they approach on their horses, grabbing Boadicea off the leadline attached to a slender blonde’s saddle horn. You lead her under a small shed that resides next to the cabin and use your boots to clear out large portions of fluffy snow. Scattering hay on the ground, you give her a good pat before loosening her girth and heaving the saddle from her back. You carry it inside.

When all is settled within the warm confines of the cabin, time seems to stop. You spend hours catching up with Val, telling him of your travels and listening to his own. The elephant in the room is avoided at first, but the question eventually comes crawling from your throat, impatient.

You sip on deer meat stew, which is by the far the best meal you’ve had in months. It is luxurious compared to fresh hare or turkey over a coaled campfire.

“Val, the factory… I saw you die. Right in front of me.” The words are quiet, and you can’t find the courage to look up from the steaming bowl in your lap. He is sitting on a wooden crate in front of you, working on his own bowl of stew. His eating pauses and he stares up at you, listening.

Something burns in the back of your throat, but this time you don’t let the tears get the better of you. You’ve done enough crying, and sternly swallow the feeling away. “They had shot you- I could feel the blood on my face, everything…”

You finally glance up at your best friend. He is still slender like he was in his younger days, but you can tell he has filled out a bit in muscle. His face is clean of facial hair, and you remember how he used to complain about having to shave often in order to keep it away. The boyish features in his face are still there but hardened by a strong jaw and a deep voice. The men that he leads are all slightly taller than him, but you always did enjoy how he was slightly on the shorter side, still taller than you.

He is still the same, but so different. He still exudes youth, and time has been kind to him, to which you are jealous. You try to imagine what he must think of you, how much you’ve changed.

“It was a bad shot,” he mumbles ungracefully through a mouthful of stew. He swallows it, clears his throat. “Luckily it grazed my neck,” his fingers reach up and pull down the bulk of his woolen jean coat, revealing a ragged scar where his skin was forced to grow back. It’s large, and you can tell it extends further down, perhaps along his collarbone or up to his shoulder. Your eyes linger on that spot after he removes his hand.

Val continues to tell you about his journey afterwards, how it was a bitch to heal and how he was on his own for a long time. He made his money the same as you, and was eventually hauled in by a notorious outlaw. After some odd years spent under the leader’s wing, Val gained his own posse of men- the ones that are with him now. Hearing what your friend went through makes you slightly unnerved.

“You still workin’ for him?” you carefully ask, glancing around at the rooms that the men had dispersed to. A few slept in bedrolls on the floor, others were hidden behind log walls. Val nods, gesturing around.

“I owe him my life,” he begins, standing up to shrug off layers of his clothing. He takes his gloves off first, and then peels off his jacket. “He saved me from the streets, gave me a place to rest my head. The things we do, it ain’t just robbin’ stage coaches anymore.” His voice grows low and serious, but you can hear the emotion behind it. He is dedicated to this man, to this group of… outlaws? Criminals? You aren’t sure what they are. You don’t even know what you are.

You let out a small snort, amused with how, in the years apart, you had both managed to confide in someone. You watch as Val sheds most of his layers, left in nothing but a dark longsleeve. It matches his black hair, and the contrast from the clothing makes him look beautifully pale. Something within yourself wants to be close to him. Maybe it’s the lack of human contact you’ve had over the years. Maybe it’s from the deadly letter that still burns inside your satchel, never more than an arm’s length away.

For a while you think your strength exceeds desire, and you’re sure you can keep yourself from being a tick on the man’s side, but Val destroys that barrier too easily. He helps you shrug out of your own suffocating winter layers, and the accidental brushing of his fingers against your arm sends you reeling for comfort.

You turn and press your forehead to Val’s chest when he hangs your coat. He pauses for a second, surprised, but his arms eventually wrap around you. The muscle there is hardy, and you squeeze your own arms to elicit the same reaction from his. Val rests his cheek on the top of your head.

“I missed you Cline,” he sighs.

“Valentine,” you say, moving your head to look at him. The use of his full name draws his attention, some emotion swirls in his green orbs. “You gonna keep me around?”

The question is meant to be light, and he chuckles nonchalantly, but somewhere inside yourself you can feel the seriousness that had accidentally leaked into your words. Luckily, he doesn’t understand; you don’t want him to understand. It is your burden to bare. One that will hopefully disappear.

Val’s touch easily brushes away the concerned look on your face, nimble fingers moving to inspect your busted lip. He doesn’t answer your question, but you come to realize that he doesn’t need to. The comfort of emotions you find deep in his eyes is enough of an answer. His digits ghost along your jawline, your cheekbones, small wisps that you can barely register. You catch the way his eyes flick to your lips momentarily, but you stop yourself from being drawn in by it. It would be too easy for the both of you to act upon it, you decide. Until you can trust that your intentions don’t stem directly from the hole that Arthur left, you won’t act on it.

“We should get some sleep,” Val mutters, his breath fluttering across your face. You nod against him, and the deep lull of his heartbeat fades away when he releases you.

Both of you retreat to your own bedrolls, equally spaced from the blazing chimney. The fires heat laps at your shivering limbs, and it isn’t long before sleep finds you. It is the first decent sleep you’ve had in months.

***

The next day you help the group pack the horses and Valentine leads everyone north. It is a straight ride for three days, but being in the saddle becomes bearable by the second day once the snowy mountains are left far behind. Chilly winds give way to warmer currents and orange trees when the group approaches the destination.

The destination is the main camp of Val’s gang. It is a large sum of people, all bustling with energy and sporting the same dark clothing as Val. There are several campfires placed along the clearing, and canopy wagons make a barrier on the far side of the camp. The amount of people unnerves you as the group rides into camp. Several pairs of eyes stare onward at the clade of horses that trot into the clearing, announced by the shuffling of dead leaves underfoot.

Most of the posse untacks their horses and turns them loose, to which the horses whinny and rush to join the herd left to graze on the outskirts of camp. You settle with tethering Boadicea next to Val’s black thoroughbred. Tynan is a well-behaved stallion, and you slip away from your nervousness by patting him on the neck. You slip him and Boadicea a carrot each before you leave to deal with the formalities of meeting Val’s gang.

Valentine nods a few serious greetings to some older men and women that approach, and you don’t miss the way that they stare disapprovingly at the pair of you. Silently you follow close behind Val and step into a dark cabin. It is much smaller than the one in the mountains, maybe only enough room to house two people comfortably. Upon entering, you realize it isn’t much of a house at all. Inside there is a bedroll and a small wood stove, a butchered sink area with cabinets, and a wooden table at which a man in a dark hat sits. Paint chips litter the floor, and the roof doesn’t look like it will hold up much longer.

The mysterious man at the table looks up from studying worn papers in his hands when he hears the door creak open. The air that surrounds your best friend is something foreign and serious. The rigid form Valentine had taken upon immediately stepping into the hut has your skin crawling, and even makes you frown.

“Ah, Valentine,” the man at the table drawls. He looks up with a smile, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. As you step closer, you can see the oily locks of dark hair that hang along the man’s face. His eyes flicker to you, and he slowly removes his hat in your presence. “You brought company?” he asks, moving his eyes away from you only to question your friend.

“This is Cline,” Val starts, and you sense no nervousness coming from him anymore. “She’s the one I told you about.” He adds.

“Ah, Miss Cline,” the man drawls knowingly, tilting back in his chair to prop his boots on the table surface. “I hear you’re one hell of a shot.”

It takes a moment for reality to reach you, and you nod dumbly. “I know my way with a gun.”

“Modest.” He states, nodding his head the slightest. His snakelike eyes meet yours once again, and his posture changes when you don’t falter to his scrutinizing stare. “Names Colm O’Driscoll. You’re either with us ‘r against us, that’s just the way it works ‘round here.” His voice is low, and you heed the warning. “Since you’re friends with my boy here,” he gestures to Val, “I’m assumin’ you’re with us.”

He says it as a statement. As in, you better be with us. You nod to him firmly, making a gesture with your arms. “I’d be alone if Val hadn’t found me. I go where he goes, I’m with who he’s with.”

Colm nods slowly, as if he were taking the time to register your words. His feet plop back onto the wooden floorboards and he scratches at the stubble along his jaw. “That’ll do, Miss Cline. We’re a big crowd, I’m sure you can find someone to keep you warm at night.” The statement makes your teeth grind, but you force a smile to the surface. Colm and Val exchange a few more words, and soon you step out of the cabin the same way you came.

“He’s lovely.” It pours out of your mouth the instant the door closes behind you. The camp is bustling now, shuffling around on horses and splitting into separate groups.

“You’ll get used to it,” Val smiles to you, “if you stay around.”

You step in front of him at the statement. He halts, and you stare up at him closely with a smile.

“If your boys don’t try to haul me in again, I just might.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, and you catch the way his eyes stare down at his feet for a few shy seconds. “You ain’t the only one with a poster around here.”

You hum and nod your head.

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your hand if you know where this is going. Next couple chapters will be drama.
> 
> Edit: just to clarify because I'm self conscious:  
> Reader is not aware of the feud that happens between Dutch van der Linde and Colm. It didn't occur until after Arthur left, so this is all in good intentions, reader isn't evil (:


	8. VII: The Space In Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: vague sexual content, cursing, drug use. Also, a surprise guest makes a lousy cameo.
> 
> Sorry, this is a self-indulgent dive into reader and Val's relationship. Not the best chapter I've wrote, but certainly the most satisfying so far. Don't worry, I will be completely switching gears in the next chapter, I don't want to bore y'all with my bad OC too much, lmao.
> 
> If you aren't very interested in the relationship w/ Val, you can skip this chapter. It is purely a filler.
> 
> As always, thanks for the kudos and comments! You guys have been so supportive, and it is really helping me stick with this story! This is the longest fanfiction I've ever written so far, thanks to all of you.

_10 months later._

 

 

The thrumming of your heart is the only thing you can hear. It provides a chorus, loud and steady as you watch the events unfold in front of you. The group storms into the rickety house, overgrown with vines and littered with aluminum cans and glass. There is a chemical smell in the air, one that burns the inside of your nose and churns your stomach.

A well-known moonshine and drug distributor owed the O’Driscoll boys money, courtesy of Val’s connection. When Colm had inquired about the lack of resources, Valentine insisted on paying the distributor a visit. The criminal is holed up north of Annesburg, a shabby and all-to-familiar mining town you did not want to be close to.

You had followed Valentine into the shrubbery surrounding the shack, and easily located the dealer inside, along with a few feigning helpers. They were in the process of sorting crates of morphine and brewing a finished batch of juice in a barrel. Some of the men, skinny and gangly in comparison to most, stopped to stare hatefully when the two of you made an entrance. You didn’t miss the slightly crazed look in their eyes.

The bootlegger had been standing at the center of the operation, proctoring the sorting of vials and syringes of golden liquid. Val was already aggravated, and you stood close by his side in case he needed backup. You hadn’t been around any addicts or dealers before, but knew they weren’t easy to subdue, especially when in their own element.

“Did I not warn you last time we spoke?” Val is immediately on offense, and you can practically feel the heat radiating from him. He forgets about you at his side, steps in front of you to directly approach the man in charge of the operation. You let him fume but keep your fingers near your holster.

The man is taller than Val but sports a frail, thin frame in comparison. His voice shakes when Val approaches, clearly already off-put by your partner’s aggravation. 

“S-sir, please, I told you-“ the man tries to speak, but only cowers into himself as Valentine steps closer. You watch quietly as Val grabs the man by his shirt collar and brings him nose to nose.

“I-I’m trying to find a replacement, I can’t be here anymore, I-I want to change-“ the weak pleas are useless, and Val releases the man only to land a deep punch to the side of his face. The force sends the skinny man to the floor, but Val is right on top of him again.

“I don’t care what you want, Swanson,” Valentine growls, holding a threatening fist near his face again. “We pay you to supply, and yet we haven’t seen anything in months. I’m beginning to think we ought to drag you in ourselves, get a little money back while we can.”

More weak pleas shake from the man, and you advert your attention elsewhere. It is alluring to see Val’s temper flare, to see his perfectly kempt hair disheveled from his own anger, but you try to block those thoughts from coiling around you at an inappropriate moment. Instead you keep an eye on the workers who eye Valentine like their next meal. One of them slowly tries to slink towards Val and Swanson, and you immediately pull out your pistol. You have no reservation in pulling the trigger, sending a bullet into the rotten floorboards near the feign.

“Don’t move again.” You warn, fixing the barrel of your pistol onto the skinny form to get your point across. The skinny man takes a step back timidly, but his attention returns to Valentine and Swanson. He seems to be paying close attention to the conversation between his overseer and yours. You squint a little, but are confident you can shoot him before he reaches Val if he tries to do anything.

Another gangly form comes into your peripheral vision, and someone barrels into the simmering keg near your target, spilling the contents onto the floor. It pools all over the small surface area of the shack floor, and you move your gun.

“I said don’t move!” you snap, but your voice wavers, unsure of what they are up to. Thankfully, you see Val straighten, and he turns on his heels away from Swanson. He walks to you but is still angrily glaring past.

“Let’s go,” he says, and you immediately step in line to follow him out. 

When Val slips past one of the thimble bootleggers, intent on walking out the shack door, you aren’t fast enough to stop what happens in front of you. The feign nonchalantly moves into Val’s way, and all you register is the cry of pain before your barrel aims at the man’s head and fires. You don’t hear the sickening splat of the bullet’s impact, or the _thrump_ as the bullet exits the thin wooden wall behind the man, you only know Val is on his knees and now you could kill everyone in the shack.

Before you make your way to Valentine, your pistol fires two more times, killing the other two bootleggers that had been standing away from everything. You leave Swanson where he stands, shaking in his boots. He is a risk you aren’t worried about leaving unattended.

You kneel next to Val when he sinks to the floor, gripping something at his front side. Sweat immediately pricks your skin, turning ice cold, and your hands shake as you assess his body. A small blade protrudes from his thigh and his own blood is staining his pale hands as he grips at the blade. The first glance at it calms you slightly. It isn’t a very large blade and luckily it didn’t go too deep. You can live with that.

Before both of you can recollect yourselves enough to stumble outside to the horses, there is a fuming heat that rises around you. Flames are suddenly licking at your feet, and within moments the old wood of the shack is too hot to touch. You immediately whirl your head around only to see the man, Swanson, full of delusion and asking God for forgiveness. He sputters and cries something to himself about burning away his old life, his sins. You don’t hear most of it. Your only concern is getting out before the roof caves in.

Hot coals begin popping from the floor and falling from above, and the building is quickly stripped of breathable air. Soot finds its way onto your clothes and skin, fierce and heavy from the moonshine flames. Over the crackling of the burning boards, you can hear Val spit a curse.

“Go to hell, Swanson!” he hisses, trying to manage standing on his own. Your arms find purchase around his frame and you guide him outside, into the fresh air.

After ushering Val outside the hut, you guide him towards a nearby tree and have him sit at the base of it. You kneel beside him and your hands go to his thigh, an action of consolation. Once again, you must force yourself to ignore the tense muscles you find there. You decide to shame yourself later, and force your hands onto him harder, pressing against the area around the intrusion. It doesn’t take long for blood to stop seeping past the edges of the blade, but you know it will start again once it is removed.

For a second, you stop to catch your breath. You didn’t realize how heavily you’d been breathing until you finally still, hands slightly shaking, exhausted from your nerves. Val doesn’t say anything, but simply watches as you examine the injury. He shares a long, hard gaze with you, and the extension of mixed emotions you find in those foamy green eyes sets something ablaze inside you. Suddenly you are aware of how close you are sitting. Of how your hands have yet to leave his lower half, as if he would drift away the instant you pull away from him. The nervous chilliness that had found you is long gone, thanks to the fire within yourself and the hut. Your body takes that look he is giving you and runs wild with it, and the result is warmth that blossoms across your cheeks, that plants in your stomach.

The smoke that files from the building is sweet smelling. Val seems to jump to a realization once the smoke hits his senses.

“Shit…” Is all he has to say before the realization dawns on you as well. All the O’Driscoll’s resources sit burning away, just a few feet within reach. Resources that secured a steady income of money, an income of respect with many different people in hard to reach places. Those connections were being burned right in front of you.

And to think, someone will have to tell Colm about it all.

The dread that coils around you at the thought spurs you into action, and you leave Val’s side to run into the building once more. You hop around the flames, coughing and wincing your way through debris. You grab as many intact crates as you can, systematically walking them to the doorway and tossing them out of the fires reach.

When you hear the frames supporting the doorway start to crack, you know your time is up. With two smaller crates in your arms, you rush out of the hut just as the ceiling concaves in a blur of coal and ash.

You trip over a root but let yourself fall to the ground. You lay there, staring up at the crystal sky as the ugly smoke drifts towards the heavens. The fire still burns, steadily devouring everything left in the pile of rubble.

Val is still sitting against the tree. He rests his head back and closes his eyes, breathing out a sigh of finality. You join him at his side, sitting with your back against the bark.

“Colm’s gonna be pissed,” you hear Val mutter, and when you look over at him you can see the reflection of orange flickering in his eyes.

A measly “Yep,” is all you can manage to say.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Colm does not take the news lightly. You’re standing just outside the door, nonchalantly trying to strain your ears to hear what is being said. Val had told you to wait out here. You can hear their voices raising a few octaves at a time, and there is a loud _thunk_ , followed by shuffling, and then silence. You can’t make out the words that are muttered at the end before the door flies open. Valentine storms past you, not so much as turning his head to retrieve you from where he’d left you. You catch a glimpse of a red bruise already forming over Val’s cheekbone as he passes. To keep yourself from storming inside and threatening the leader of the largest outlaw gang, you fall in quick step behind Valentine. He is fuming, you can see through the tenseness of his shoulders and the way his fists are clenched.

You duck under the flap of Val’s lean-to tent. He paces around inside, throwing his gloves onto his bed and running his free fingers through his hair. His nimble digits tug his own hair back in aggravation, and you dumbly stand at the entrance, seething in your own rage at Colm. Your brows form a hard line when you speak.

“What did he say?” your voice is hard, clearly sharing Valentine’s aggravation, although for different reasons.

Val stands still for a moment, staring hard at his feet. His molars visibly clench, and you see him shake his head angrily before he strides over to you. “Screw it,” he mutters lowly, and those few steps quickly close the space between you. You don’t find the time to react before his hands are on either side of your face and his lips crash into yours. It is a mess of breath and teeth as you try to match Val’s ferocity, but your attempts prove useless. His skin is already hot to the touch, anger and desire likely working together to boil under his surface.

His hands move everywhere, along your shoulders, your sides, down to your waist. If you had any resolve left, it is long gone now, nothing more than dust in the wind. You only break the kiss long enough to suck in a hurried gasp of air, and he reacts tenfold when your hands tug his jacket off his shoulders. The black material falls somewhere at your feet, and you use your body to walk him backwards, never breaking contact. You can feel his grin in between the rolls of your lips, and you know he is wearing that signature cocky smirk of his.

When his calves hit the back of the thin makeshift mattress, he sits, and you waste no time in straddling his waist. Your position makes you taller than him for the time being, and you use it to your advantage. During another hungry kiss, Val’s hands reach up between the two of you to pluck the buttons of your shirt open. Each time his calloused pads grace your skin in attempt to tear the buttons from their hold, your breath catches and your mind spins.

The smirk he wore had already faded, melted away by pure need. His cheeks are tinted red, and the way his chest heaves makes you feel impossibly hotter. You are both out of breath, and spend a moment sitting there, bodies pressed together as close as your remaining layers will allow.

“Val,” you whisper, it’s a needy passing of breath more than anything, “I fucking love you.”

This makes him grin again, and he chuckles, still out of breath. “Took you long enough,” is all he says before he’s kissing you again, moving to your neck, your shoulders, the tops of your breasts that your loose button-up had revealed. You revel in his touch, lulling your head back to expose more of your throat. He leaves small, nipping buds of purple in his wake, and you realize the possessiveness is the thing you had lacked your whole life. Sure, you had belonged in  several places before, but this, this was something entirely different.

You feel him shift underneath you, and you can feel just how restless he is getting. The two of you don’t even waste time on peeling off the rest of your clothes, nor messing with the small mattress for a comfy spot to lay. You can't wait that long, and neither can he, and when his fingers move to fumble with the button of your pants, you rush to do the same with his. His knuckles absently brush along your abdomen, and it sends those muscles there rolling and jumping. This, of course, does nothing but spur him further.

More than one void is fulfilled when the two of you connect on a deeper level than ever before. You realize you love him, oh you love him so much, and he does a good job at showing his affections. His movements are fluid and gentle and the expertise that he shows surprises you- but the surprise is short lived. The two of you had lived different lives, away from each other for years. Valentine is handsome and charming, you wouldn't be surprised if he had scooped up young women before you.

The end comes fairly quick, but the blissful feeling of a desire sated is stronger than any shame. Both of you are left quivering in each other’s wake.

 

 

* * *

           

 

That night you spend a few hours sorting through the crates you had managed to save from the fire. It is done under the scrutiny of Colm, and luckily you had sent Val to get his thigh checked out after realizing how much he had been forced to use it during your… activities. Colm stands behind you as you open each crate and stack the contents to the side, silently counting each resource as you go.

There are only two caches of morphine that had been salvaged. All of the other boxes contain opium joints and raw cocaine, which is valuable on the streets, but not as sought after as the liquid gold. You don’t say anything, but simply watch as Colm glares at his loss of supplies. He is silent when he stalks forward to get a closer look at the vials of morphine.

“Sell the morphine. Hand out the rest,” he pointedly steps close to you, nearly nose to nose when you look up at him. “You did good not to come back empty-handed.” The words are slightly praiseful, but you pick up on the darkness behind them. He hovers close, allowing his snake-like gaze to burn into your memory before he slinks away.

When Valentine returns from getting his wound cleaned up, he finds you sitting by the fire, a joint rolling between your index and middle finger. He joins the empty space on the log next to you, and he earns a few chiding remarks from the guys around the campfire as he approaches, something offhand about “being shown up by a woman”.

“Thanks,” Val says as you pass him the joint you had been puffing on. He lazily takes a long drag on it, squinting a bit at the burn.

“It’ll help the pain,” you inform him, and he shares a knowing smirk with you.

You spend majority of the night talking with everyone, and Valentine enjoys the time by catching up with some of his posse men, who act like totally different people when they aren’t under Colm’s watch. Some of the very few older women in the group steal you away at some point, but once you’re ready to turn in for the night, you find yourself slinking back into Val’s tent instead of your own.

He is asleep when you find him, his thigh propped tenderly by a thick folded jacket. You can tell from the tenseness of his sleeping face that he is resting the soreness away. Carefully you manage to crawl into bed with him, and although it is ungraceful, he doesn’t stir from his sleep.

The spot you nuzzle yourself into next to him becomes your permanent sleeping place for many, many nights. Memories that haunt you from long ago finally seem a safe distance away.

That night, you knew Val wasn’t just a patch over the hole Arthur had left. The world had shown you it isn’t impossible to fall in love more than once.

And so you did.


	9. VIII: Once Bitten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: gun violence, curse words
> 
> AHHH I'm trying to get this posted before I have class in like 10 minutes. I finished writing just in time but I'm too eager to check for spelling and grammar mistakes. Will update later.
> 
> For now, enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: If y'all get some more notifications about this being updated, it's just me tweaking this chapter a bit. Not sure if it will notify watchers when I'm editing, but just in case it does!

In three years, the O’Driscolls manage to make their way back to those same dreadful, snowy mountains in the Grizzlies.

It took a full year before the rest of the gang came to trust you, and two years for Colm to stop hovering around Valentine as an excuse to watch you more closely. For the most part, after Val and his own men finally branched out from the main group again, it felt like old times.

“I thought I told you I didn’t ever want to be in these damn mountains again,” you call out above the whistling of the wind in your ears. The snow is falling fast, and the black coat of Tynan’s flank seems far away.

“Trust me, I don’t either!” Val yells, and you barely catch the words. You glance back at the men behind you and can only count three before the blizzard swallows the furthest ones from your eyesight. A few nudges from your heels has Boadicea high-stepping over the blankets of snow, falling in step next to Tynan.

“We need to stop soon,” you warn, but you know Val is already aware. The incline ahead is steep, nothing but a wall of white. If the group were to turn back, the ride would take hours before reaching the lower valleys. Colter was undoubtedly just above the ridge ahead, but the slope is dangerous with the addition of the strong winds and piercing snowflakes. Val yanks Tynan to a halt, and you do the same with Boadicea. The posse joins shortly after.

“Colm wants us in Colter before he gets there with the others,” Val states, wincing against the bitter winds. “We can’t afford to turn around.”

Nothing gets in the way of Val when he is sent out to do something for Colm. It is impossible to deter him, and while you find his unshakeable loyalty insanely sweet and attractive, it worries you. It is like a spell, only taking over his body when Colm insists. Colm had become harsher to his best man over the years, “you make him soft,” he had told you. The force of the tyrant was just now starting to ease up, but you and Val had already become conditioned to jump when Colm says jump.

As for the rest of the O’Driscolls, you considered them family now. Majority of the gang was constantly changing, fallen soldiers always replaced by young men running from something, someone. Val had only lost one of his main men, and the five of you remained a close circle. You’d come to know them all very personally, and the friendships formed made Valentine’s team the most elite of the O’Driscolls. Colm’s shining pride, no doubt.

“We can scout for a way around the ridge,” one of the men, Barrett, suggests. He is the oldest of the group. “Might as well make ourselves useful, waitin’ for the storm to pass.”

You share a look with Val, and he seems stressed, but nonetheless agrees. “Fine,” he sighs, adjusting Tynan’s reins in his grip. “You three go together,” he nods to Barrett, Snyder, and Castillo. Val coaxes Tynan into a walk, and you follow him as the others leave to scout in the other direction.

The two of you follow a sapphire stream northeast. Boadicea reluctantly steps into the chilly water after a few demanding kicks, and you allow her to step up into the snow on the other side. Tynan walks confidently through the stream, and Val keeps him there for easier footing. You follow the stream down into a navigable valley, and the blizzard still thrashes angrily in the atmosphere.  

There is a moment where you think your ears are playing tricks on you, so you pull Boadicea into a halt. You lean your forearms against the saddle horn, straining to hear anything but the howling wind. Val walks on a few steps before he realizes you had stopped and turns to join you at the bank of the stream.

“What is it?” he asks, eyeing you carefully.

“I could’a swore I heard someone yellin’…” you squint at the scenery surrounding you, trying to solve the delusion. “Or, hoof beats…”

You trail off, and the suspicion is confirmed when a dark figure emerges from the veil of fog at the end of your vision. The horse is galloping in long strides, stepping over the thick blankets of snow in cue to its rider’s demand. In unison, you and Valentine grab your nearest firearms, but relax when the figure comes closer. The rider doesn’t seem to notice at first, too far into a frenzied getaway. The horse slides on its hocks, stopping just in front of you. You have your repeater trained on the rider, but immediately lower it when you recognize who it is.

“Cline! Oh- Valentine- thank God you’re here!” It’s Kieran, one of the newer recruits. He is out of breath and keeps looking over his shoulders worriedly. “He’s chasing me,” he breathes, urging his horse so that you and Valentine are blocking him from the mysterious pursuer.

“Who is?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. Valentine shares the same look, and he isn’t fazed, knowing all to well the ridiculous ideas that have come pouring from Kieran’s mouth before.

“I-I don’t know, a group of fellas in the valley, they saw me. I was on patrol. I thought theys’would leave me alone at first, but one of ‘em started chasing me.” His voice quivers slightly, an attempt to catch his breath.

You stare ahead at where Kieran had emerged from and train the barrel of your gun there once more. You wait for someone else to emerge from the depths of the blizzard, but nothing shows except for an elk crossing the stream. Still you wait a few more long moments before losing caution.

“Let’s just go,” you announce after sharing a questioning look with Valentine. The two of you hike your horses back to the group’s meeting point, with a shivering cadet in tow.

 

 

***

 

 

The O’Driscolls had set up camp in an abandoned mining facility nestled in the furthest reaches of the Ambarino mountains. Colm arrives in two days, and the bustling business of the camp lulls to a standstill at his arrival. No one is clear on the reason Colm decided to pinpoint a meeting in the middle of nowhere, but loyally, no one questions it.

Even a sunny afternoon, the bitterness of the cold is unrelenting. The day after Colm arrives, you bug Valentine about departing early.

“What does he need us for if the whole damned gang is here to back him up?” you groan, tugging your riding boots on. You shrug a wool jacket over your shoulders, and watch Val do the same from across the room. He fingers black gloves over his hands and looks over his shoulder at you.

“We’re his top team, it doesn’t matter what he needs us for.” He smiles lightly, but you know his devotion to Colm is serious. You only shrug, and move from your seat to make yourself busy with cleaning weapons.

Halfway through rubbing your repeater with gun oil, a deep, distant gunshot rings throughout the valley. It only takes seconds before more gunshots follow, and you share a wide-eyed look with Val before the two of you grab firearms and bust through the cabin door.

Everyone is scrambling and shooting, and you take cover behind the corner of the cabin to get your bearings. Who the hell is brave enough to storm a whole group of O’Driscolls?

There are figures sloshing their way down the steep incline of the hill north of camp. A few others come from the south, and from the looks of it, there aren’t nearly enough of them to win this fight.

You are very wrong.

Gang members fall left and right. Valentine had rushed into the fray to secure Colm’s safety, said something about an escort. You hadn’t caught much of his words, but you knew would find him later. The gunshots had dwindled down after several minutes of fighting, and you knew there was hardly anyone left.

You peek out from your cover, eyes quickly scanning the surrounding area. Bodies of black and green clothes lay strewn about the yard. A quick look towards the main building told you it was vacant, and you knew Valentine had made it out with the rest of your team and Colm. After confirming that there was no movement immediately near you, you kick your body into action. You dart from behind the crate you had moved to and slink along the wall of the nearest cabin. Another quick look tells you there are men searching the far side of the camp. Good, now you could make your getaway while the enemies are occupied.

Bracing your repeater close to your chest, you shift your weight and round the corner of the cabin swiftly. A strong force instantly smacks into you. Your grip loosens and your gun flies out of your grasp when you fall back onto the icy ground. You waste no time in reacting. In a matter of seconds, you manage to scramble out of harms way, find your gun, and train it at the enemy.

When you lift your head, you are staring down the barrel of a rifle. The tip of your attacker’s gun is within touching distance of your nose, but so is yours to his. The world seems to fall silent except for the pounding in your ears and the rush of your breath, which forms crystallized clouds on the exhale.

“Don’t make a sound, I won’t shoot.” The words sound like a growl when they leave your lips. Your finger hovers around the trigger, and the man’s shoulders tense involuntarily as he adjusts the grip on his own rifle. At the slightest tilt of his head, you catch a glimpse of glacial pools of green and blue through shadow his hat casts across his cheeks. Your own gaze is unyielding and fiery, ready to end the man’s life in your escape attempt, but it falters when you see his own anger pause. Something close to realization slowly dawns across the man’s face. His brows are furrowed into a hard line, and he stares at you.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to negotiate, miss,” a deep voice interrupts the interaction from behind you, and in your peripherals you see pistol trained on you; courtesy of a man dressed in black. You grit your teeth and slowly lower your weapon, still never breaking eye contact with the man in front.

At the discretion of the dark-clad persona, the man you had threatened now collects your weapon and slings it over his shoulder. Rope is tossed to him and he quickly gets to work with binding your wrists. Stiffly, you comply to his forceful movements, and only move when he yanks you up to your knees, then to your feet. Your face is sour, and grows even more so when you are shoved towards the other man and led out into the open mining field.

You aren’t worried about what they will do to you or that they will find Colm. Valentine would have already escorted him and the rest of the team far away from here by now.

“You see, miss,” the deep voice continues, echoing out sullenly across the snow as the rest of the opposing gang come into the clearing. Someone moves behind you and knocks the back of your legs, forcing you to your knees once more. “We are looking for someone very important, and I have a feeling--“ his voice is calm and controlled, and he stops directly in your eyesight, “you can help us out.”

You stare ahead defiantly, keeping your lips sealed. It is only when you become fully aware that this might very well be the day you die in Colm’s name that something draws everyone’s attention. Two men slink out from behind a stack of wooden crates, each one has their weapon trained on the group of outlaws surrounding you. It is hard to see them through the bright glowing of the sunshine as it hits the snow.

“Let her go,” one of the men speaks. The voice is young and slightly gravelly, and you recognize him as Castillo. Next to him is Kieran, of all people. It surprises you that the feeble man would stick around after a gunfight.

The man closest to you, which you assume is the leader, straightens his back before letting out a few booming laughs. The other outlaws stand silent, their attention fully pinned on the two outsiders.

“Now look at what we have here!” that deep voice rings out across the clearing once again. You can only stare ahead and let yourself drink in what is happening. Any move you try to make is monitored by the people hovering behind you. By now, the cold of the ground feels like it has reached the bones of your knees. “A couple of… _O’Driscolls_ …” he seethes at the name, “standing up for their kin.” The leader takes leisurely steps, and you can tell there isn’t a tense muscle in his body. He is completely relaxed.

“I didn’t know Colm was teaching ethics these days...” The man wrings his gloved hands together, eyes piercing Castillo and Kieran. He glances over his shoulder and shares a small look with the gruff man that had moved to stand at your side.

“…In that case, I think we can spare to lose at least _one_ of these vermin,” the leader starts talking again, throws one of his hands to the side in a gesture. This signals a movement, and the man next to you draws his pistol and presses it to your temple. It stirs a reaction from Castillo. You can see his blonde hair shimmering, but the view is blocked once more. You don’t see what happens, but the gunshot that hammers near you sends your head into a ringing chorus. Nothing fades to black, and everything is still there when you pry your eyes open. You can’t hear anything, but your eyes drown in the sight of Kieran standing alone. Castillo is crumpled on the ground, devoured by white.

Your throat burns angrily and does even more-so as you watch Kieran throw his rifle into the white abyss. He turns on his heels and disappears behind a cabin. A man with bronze skin breaks from the clearing to run after him.

More words are muffled around you, and it isn’t long before someone is yanking you to your feet. They force you along the trek out of the valley, to their horses, and then into the wilderness once more.

They end up catching Kieran, hogtying him to get a few laughs out. He is strewn across the flank of an appaloosa, while you are simply forced to trudge along through the snow. Along your walk, your mind reels, trying to make sense of everything. Valentine had gotten away with Colm and what you assumed was the rest of the team, so why had Castillo been there?

You think long and hard, and come to realize that Val had sent Castillo back to get you. That thought alone is enough to keep you from freezing to death, even as you tumble into the trodden snow a few times.

 

 

***

 

 

After the outlaws immobilize you and Kieran inside a solitary log shelter, it only takes a few hours for someone to start the interrogations. The leader is the first one to walk through the door, and with him is the man who had caught you during the basin fight. Blue and green eyes, you remember.

“One of you is going to start talking,” the leader says matter-of-factly. He pulls a crate to the side and takes a seat in front you. He takes one glance into the burning inferno that is your gaze before he shifts seats, planting himself in front of Kieran instead. “This one’ll be easier to scare.” He chuckles, and his sidekick nods his head, resting his back against the wall.

“P-please sir, I-I don’t know nothin’” Kieran begs, drops of sweat forming on his brows. “I ain’t an O’Driscoll!”

At those words you shoot Kieran a glare, one that says ‘these men are no longer your only concern’. It doesn’t deter him, however, and he keeps spitting out pleas and animosity. The two men share a look and are obviously taken aback.

“Well, son, I’m afraid one of you will have to fess up sooner or later!” there is a sincere look plastered across the leader’s face only to add to his own sarcasm.

“Hold up, Dutch,” the other man speaks from across the room. He takes a few steps forward, drawing energy from the other man’s façade. “If he ain’t an O’Driscoll, then she sure as hell is.” He nods to you, and you wish you could punch the fake smile off his face.

Dutch raises an eyebrow comically and agrees. “I think you might be right, son.” Dutch says, and now he is shifting to sit in front of you. Hearing that name said aloud stirs something vague in your memory, but you don’t allow yourself to dwell on it. It doesn’t matter if you’d met someone with the same name before, because this Dutch is very willing to strike you dead at any moment; that much was made clear in the valley basin.

Interrogative questions continue for an immeasurable amount of time before Dutch gets too angered. He leaves with his sidekick, and when the door opens again, a man with a dirty blonde mustache and hair to match steps inside. The same man Dutch had brought earlier is here again.

There is no hesitation from the blonde man as he paces through the doorway, reels a fist, and plants it on one of your temples. The impact jars you against the wooden chair they had tied you to, and suddenly you get an idea.

“Watch and learn, old man, this is how you get answers.” The blonde flashes a grin akin to that of a muskrat and only earns an eyeroll from the observer. “Now tell me where Colm O’Driscoll is.” He leans in close to you.

“Ain’t tellin’ you shit,” you scowl, and it earns you another punch, this time to your cheek. Again, your body is thrown against the material of the chair, and you can feel the legs become unsteady.

You start to string insults at the man, saying anything that will keep him angry and throwing punches. All it takes is one last knock to the side of your head before the wooden chair gives way under you, just enough for you to break it the rest of the way. Your bindings loosen enough for you to slip through, and immediately you dive into the blonde man to miss his next attack. The man throws himself from his perch against the wall and rushes over, and unfortunately, he is too fast for you. His arms wrap around your frame and hauls you off the blonde before you can land a punch; so, you give it to him instead. It doesn’t do much. In fact, you are useless against this man’s sheer brawn. When he pins you to the floorboards with your wrists above your head, you know you underestimated.

In your attempt to wiggle out of his hold, something catches the man’s eye. You don’t see the way he falters again, much like he did when the two of you were at gunpoint. All you feel is the hem of your shirt being lifted, just barely, before your energy comes back full force and you try your best to escape his grip. You are all too familiar with what a man wants in this situation and would gladly die before being taken advantage of.

“Just- hold on, I’m not-!” his voice skips according to your thrashing, and within a few more moments of being held like that, his grip loosens, and you crawl away from him. When you brace yourself against the wall you meet his cerulean gaze once again.

He is staring at you, mouth slightly agape and bewilderment across his features. You pause your anger to look down at your shirt, trying to see what was suddenly confusing him. There is nothing there or on you, but you raise your shirt away from your hip to look at the scar on your navel.  Why would he be looking at…

Oh.

 _Oh_ , now you know. There is only one person other than Valentine that knows what that scar is from.

Micah seems far away when he finally stirs from the spot on the floor he had been plastered to. “Damned bitch! Arthur, grab her!” he seethes, but the man you now recognize doesn’t move. Hearing his name spoken out loud seems to bring the reality to face-value, and it has you spinning; spinning so hard you don’t think it will ever stop.

Your voice shakes when you finally meet those beryl eyes of his.

“…Arthur?”


	10. XI: The Heavens, They Clash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry in advance for the 500 time skips. 
> 
> Also, please let me know if my writing/story is steadily growing worse as these chapters progress, because I feel like that is happening haha.

Arthur is quick to turn on his heels. He brushes past Micah and disappears outside, and you are left sitting numbly on the floor. The oily outlaw takes it upon himself to bind your hands again, this time to a wooden post of the cabins infrastructure to make sure you can’t escape again. You are left to bask in your thoughts, and an entire day and night passes by before someone walks through the door again.

 

***

 

Dutch looks up from the book in his hands as Arthur slams the door behind him. The man seethes the entire way into his bedroom, and only reappears to pace the area by the fireplace. Hosea emerges from the doorway a few moments later and looks to Dutch, searching for answers.

“She’s a damn O’Driscoll.” Arthur breaks the sharp silence with a growl, mostly meant for himself. He slides a hand down his face in frustration, shaking his head in dismay.

“What do you mean? Of course that woman is an O’Driscoll. So is the pathetic excuse of a man, otherwise we-“ Dutch begins to speak, but he is cut off by Arthur’s angry flare.

“You don’t get it, Dutch!” Arthur snaps. The impact of his tone has both Dutch and Hosea shifting into those stern parenting looks, and it does nothing but irritate the outlaw further. “That’s Cline,” he finally says, forcing himself to sigh into a softer voice. Arthur’s eyes don’t leave the floor. Hosea’s face softens at the realization, and now he understands why Arthur is worked up. He gives a sympathetic nod, and Dutch is still confused.

“You ain’t makin’ any sense, son. How the hell do you know an O’Driscoll?” Dutch’s voice is hard but carefully unaccusatory. Hosea holds his hands up in a surrendering gesture, hoping to settle the fire that is easily about to kindle between the two. He takes a seat near Dutch.

“Just- wait a moment, Dutch.” Hosea begins, and Arthur disappears once more. He doesn’t want to listen. “Do you remember that night Arthur brought that injured girl to camp, real young?” Hosea dives into the memory, retelling the details to Dutch. Years ago, when Arthur had come to him for help writing a letter, Hosea had conned Arthur into telling him who the letter was for. From that stemmed the rest of the secrets Arthur had kept concerning the very girl he brought to camp. It was sweet, and Hosea had assured he wouldn’t tell a soul. Not even Dutch.

Now, the time was right, and several things clicked into place for Dutch. Small holes in time were filled, and now he knew why Arthur had stayed away so often in his teenage years. Why he insisted on going to town alone, why he would camp ‘by himself’ some nights.

Dutch understands, just as a father would. 

 

***

 

A chilly wind sweeps through the cabin as the door opens. You were in the middle of scolding Kieran once more but grow quiet when you see who has come to talk. For a second, your stomach lurches at finally having to face the demon of your past. Luckily the feeling dissipates into something softer when you see olive skin and long, dark locks. Someone unfamiliar files in as well.

“We’re moving.” The man with a dark ponytail speaks, and he walks forward to retrieve Kieran. The other, who you don’t recognize, unties you from the post you sit against. He doesn’t speak, and tensely walks you out of the cabin.

The sunshine that reflects off every snow crystal nearly blinds you as you emerge from the cabin. When you vision returns, you see that there are a few canopy wagons being loaded with supplies. The horses are all tacked, wading through across the thick groundcover. Involuntarily your eyes search every face in the crowd that moves around, but you hope you don’t see him.

Captors shuffle you and Kieran into the frontmost wagon, and the women are spread across the remaining wagons.

The ride is long and hard, and lasts several days. You don’t know where the destination is, and you spend most of your time straining to hear the casual chitchat of the wagon drivers.

 

3 Days Later

 

Horseshoe Overlook is blissfully warmer than the Grizzlies. There is still a bitter chill in the wind, but you can finally feel soil and grass beneath your feet. You and Kieran are returned to captivity, which is a wooden stake at the edge of the camp this time. The area is uncomfortably open, and very near busy areas.

Every morning the sweet smell of stew taunts your senses, and throughout the day you can watch the camp cook sort out meat, fruit, and vegetables. Your mouth never opens, whereas Kieran often calls out to anyone close by, trying to convince them he is not what they think he is. If your hands weren’t bound, you would strangle him if it meant getting some peace and quiet.

You resort to keeping your eyes closed throughout the long days. Memories and thoughts of all sorts take over your mind, meant to be a distraction from your dry mouth and angry stomach. You can feel your own muscles growing weak from the lack of sustenance, and a headache permanently takes residence behind your eyes. For each time you feel a pang of hunger, you wonder where Valentine is. For each painful thrump of a headache, you remember the day you met him. The itching of the rope against your skin is eventually blocked by several thoughts of ‘ _he will find me, eventually_ ’. Stiffness in your spine turns into memories of fights you had won and fights you had lost.

It takes a long while, but finally, there is a silver lining. And it starts when Kieran is almost gelded.

“W-wait, wait! I can take you to him! I know where Colm is!” Kieran is trembling, and you simply watch as the two men threatening him take no consideration. They fumble with his jeans, and the one with the bushy beard can’t stop laughing. When you hear Kieran’s words, though, everything buzzing in your mind comes to a halt. Your annoyance with the man bubbles into anger in seconds, and you interrupt the commotion.

“…You know where Colm is?” you ask darkly, and Kieran looks over at you. He nods his head fiercely and looks back to the men with a pleading expression.

“Yes, yes! I can show you where he is!” Kieran cries out.

“Are you god damn kidding me?” you growl, struggling against your restraints. “You’ve known where he is this whole time and you didn’t fuckin’ tell me?” Now you hope they cut everything off. If you had the slightest clue of the O’Driscoll whereabouts, you would have already made your escape attempt. It would have been hard, but you wouldn’t have cared. And to think, Kieran has known the entire time, and has only begged the captors to free him, begged to join them.

“Might wanna watch her.” A lower voice speaks from outside the bubble of the commotion. The man with the beard, along with Dutch, turn to acknowledge who was joining the ceremony. It’s Arthur. The rim of his hat is shielding his eyes as he walks over, hands at ease along his belt. “She gets ‘er hands on him, we ain’t ever gonna find ‘em.”

You sternly avert your gaze. The octave of his voice rings sorely in your head and you aren’t sure you can fully believe he is here. Your eyes stare hard at the ground, jaw taut, grinding with irritation. Not only has Kieran known this entire time and not told you, but Arthur was about to ruin your chance of them taking you straight into the O’Driscolls.

Dutch continues to string information out of Kieran, and eventually the burly man starts to fumble with his bindings. You glance up, eager to see if they will take you along as well. The outlaws share a few more words before they begin to drag Kieran towards the horses, leaving you to stand at watch. You must think of something convincing to say, fast.

“I’m Colm’s second-hand-” you blurt. Dutch stops and turns his head to look at you, then to his bearded companion.

“-which is _exactly_ why you ain’t goin’. Dutch, Bill, c’mon.” Arthur finishes the sentence, interrupts you. With a wave of his hand he turns his back, clearly ignoring any protest you might offer. Dutch, however, is looking at you with intrigue.

“Actually,” Dutch starts, holding up a finger. He shakes it quizzically, as if processing something. “let’s take her with us.” The others pause in their steps to listen to Dutch, and you can hear Arthur groan from behind a horse.

“Colm thinks his men are dispensable,” Dutch continues, strolling over to retrieve you, “but not his best men… we have a bargaining chip, gentlemen.”

You know Dutch doesn’t have intentions of bargaining when he sends his men to sneak into camp. You watch from the ridge as Arthur and the man with a ponytail silently pick off the guards, one by one. Two of the gang members had stayed back to keep you and Kieran quiet while Dutch led the rest of the way.

When the gunshots start, your fingers immediately itch to feel the cool metal of a gun. Just one slip, and you could find a way to cut your bindings. The rope around your wrists had dug a red ravine into your skin, and if you tried hard enough, you could probably struggle out of the confinement. You give it a try, but Bill forces you to the ground and jabs his gun further towards your head. Not yet.

The outlaws are forced to make a stupid decision when more O’Driscolls start to flank through the woods. They quickly leave you and Kieran at the hill and run for cover. It takes you no time to find your feet and bolt behind a large tree stump, and instantly you wriggle your hands together. Harsh fiber bites into your skin, but you wince through it. You end up using a small spike growing from the stump to pull the rope slack enough, and you are able to force your hands free using your weight.

A thankful sigh escapes your lips and you slip farther down against the stump. Willing yourself to stay still, you take a moment to map out the directions of the gunshots. The O’Driscolls were no doubt firing towards you, and the Van der Linde gang was focusing fire ahead. Just as you are willing to jump into the fray, you hear the last few bullets ring out before the woods grow silent.

The shooting has stopped.

You peek around the wood to get a glance at the surroundings. The outlaws are slowly approaching the cabin at the center of the clearing, and you can see that their guns are trained at somebody holding their ground. While they are distracted, you slink out from your hiding spot, shuffling through the underbrush in search for a corpse’s weapon.

Just as your hands find purchase on a cedar rifle, somethings clicks in the air behind you.

“Don’t.”

You freeze mere inches from grabbing the weapon. You recognize the voice as Arthur’s. Slowly, you turn around to find him pointing his carbine at you. The end of a gun barrel has become a familiar sight to you, but you didn’t expect to see Arthur so frequently on the other side.

His eyes are stone cold, and yours are burning a fire when you look up.

“I suggest you rethink your decision, cowboy,” the next voice that speaks up is an all-too familiar sound that hums around your heart. A dark coat and green scarf slip out from behind a nearby tree, and you sigh at the black hair and sea-green eyes you find there. Val.

Your body untenses, and you let a smile find your lips. No longer concerned with fighting, you abandon the rifle you had bent to retrieve from the leaves. You step past Arthur to run to Valentine, but the outlaw makes a quick move. He easily forces the crook of his arm around your neck and pulls you against him hard. The force of your back slamming against his stout frame makes a cough erupt from you, and your hands reach up to squeeze the limb confining you.

“Drop the damn gun.” Arthur warns lowly next to your ear, staring fiercely ahead at Valentine. You catch a glimpse of the way Arthur’s trigger finger flexes when Val doesn’t make a move to surrender.

“Val, just go.” You have to force yourself to say the words. More than anything you want to escape and be back with your partner, but you can’t risk seeing him die in front of you again. Stubbornly, you can’t risk seeing Arthur get shot either.

Valentine stares coldly down the sight of his gun. He softens when you speak, and the look on his face makes your eyes sting. You wanted to be with him more than anything, can’t stand being this close to freedom with no way out.

“I’m not leaving you, Cline.” Val makes his decision and looks down the sights of his gun again. Fear immediately kicks in when you feel Arthur’s muscles shift behind you, and you know he is about to pull the trigger. Thinking fast, one of your arms bolt out to grab Arthur’s gun, but instead of trying to rip it from his grasp, you pull the barrel to face you. The body behind you falters, and you can see surprise on Val’s face too.

“Leave or he’ll shoot.” Those words are a lie. You know Arthur would never pull the trigger. But it works, and Val finally drops his aim, bitter. You look to him and can see it practically eating him alive, and your heart lurches. He gives you and Arthur a hard look, but its one that says, ‘ _ill find you again_ ’.

By the time Valentine disappears through the underbrush, the rest of the outlaws walk to join Arthur.

“I think that’s all of ‘em,” Bill speaks out roughly, out of breath. Dutch and a few others are behind him, still on the lookout as they approach. “Arthur, you seen any more O’Driscolls?”

The question burns in your ears, and you force yourself to look at Arthur when he pushes you away from his chest. His gun is still at point, but something swirls in his eyes when you meet his gaze.

Arthur is silent for a few beats before he finally looks away from you. “All gone,” he mutters, lowering his gun in the process.

 

***

 

Kieran’s actions on the battlefield had evidently convinced the Van der Linde seniority that he was not working against them. Upon return to the camp, they allowed him to pitch a bedroll and tasked him to chores. Earning your keep, they had said it was. Kieran more than gladly accepted the offer, knowing that the O’Driscolls would hunt him down otherwise. He was right.

They had to discuss whether you would be included within the forgiveness. Arthur could have spoken up about Valentine, or about how you were going to pick up arms against them, but he stayed silent when the decision was made.

Dutch was uneasy about you. Bill sure as hell wanted to keep you tied up, talked about starving you more or leaving you for target practice with the rest of the dead O’Driscolls in the woods. The rest spoke their opinions, and majority were comfortable with killing you at any suspicion. And thus, the verdict set you free as a worker within their camp.

The night of the raid, a lady named Susan Grimshaw gives you the last bedroll supplies had to spare. She is slightly bitter about it, so you meet her with silence and busy yourself with organizing a sleepspace.

They had given you your belongings back, along with the satchel you carried ever since you ran away from the orphanage in New Austin. You sit down on your bedroll, back leaning against the support of a wagon’s wheel. You had picked to lay next to one of the supply wagons for the view it provided. Several feet in front of you, the outlook of the countryside resides. Below you can see parts of the river, and the rolling hills.

You dig through your satchel and find the letter Arthur had left you all those years ago. For the first time in years you peel open the folds of worn paper to read it.

“Why’d you hang on to that?” The devil himself speaks out from behind you. He is leaning against the wagon, staring down at your seat among the bedroll and grass. You don’t turn your head in the slightest to acknowledge him. His voice is neutral, but you aren’t in the mood for soft apologies.

“Reminds me who t’stay away from.” The words harshly leave your lips, and you fold the paper closed. You hear a scoff blow through his nose, and that biting attitude of his bubbles to the surface.

“Odd choice of words,” he drawls, and his sarcastic ease digs under your skin, “considerin’ you should be thankin’ me.”

Unable to resist, you slowly turn to seethe at him. You meet his eyes firmly and his blank expression starts to twist.

“You’re right. Thanks for… for what, exactly?” you rise to your feet, and Arthur is already up for the challenge. He puffs his chest and uncrosses his arms to hold fists sternly at his waistline. “For not killing the one person that makes me feel like I actually belong somewhere? You leave me high ‘n dry, never to be seen again for _years_ , and this is how you talk to me: by saying I should _thank you_?” He is impossibly bigger and broader than you. Height and muscle are clearly in his advantage, fueled by a short temper that you didn’t remember. It was intimidating but you were tired of running from this. From him.

“It was for your own good and you damn well know it.” Arthur’s words are low and quiet, and he steps towards you until he is close. You can tell your words bit deep at the mention of confiding in someone else.

“No.” you growl, “it was for _your_ own good.” You step back.

An inferno comes to life behind your eyes and swims down your throat, but you force the tears away. He doesn’t deserve to know how you feel. You’ve shed enough tears for him in your lifetime already.

Frustrated, Arthur is silent for several moments before he speaks again. He is louder this time, clearly not hiding his volume from any onlookers in camp.

“Fine. You wanna act like an O’Driscoll? I’ll treat you like an O’Driscoll.”

He turns on his heels and storms away into camp without any further words.

You let out a loud breath and crumple the letter in your hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't hate Kieran.


	11. X: A Hostage To Fortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, you can't even begin to understand how thrilled all these comments and kudos make me. Thank you all so much for the support, it has really helped to keep me motivated! This is my single longest running fanfic, officially with nearly 100 pages in Word. And it's all thanks to you guys!
> 
> I do suddenly feel concerned that the alarming number of chapters might deflect new readers, and I hope the stories overall plot doesn't take too terribly long to finish. But, at the same time, I don't want it to go too quick! Hopefully this chapter gives a slower feel for the time being. Keep me updated on what you guys think, feedback is always welcome.

Dutch believes he is hot on Colm’s trail.

The camp raid had turned out to be a bust. Colm was not where Kieran had led the outlaws to, and he paid a price for it in mistrustful looks and constant threats. With the help of the mole they call Micah, Dutch finally believes he and Colm will walk the final rope.

Every night you force yourself awake in the late and early hours of night. Each time your eyes open you pray you have the strength to keep yourself from slipping away in the middle of the night. Sure, you would be safe if you made it back to the O’Driscolls, but your chances of sneaking away without getting caught were slim. From steady observation you learn that there are always people awake, always eyes watching over this camp. But this doesn’t deter your conscious from yearning to leave, to run.

The women of the Van der Lindes were the first to finally warm up to you, having had enough of awkwardly quiet laundry washing sessions. The overseer, Miss Grimshaw, would chide them for making conversation with you if she heard any, so the ladies took it upon themselves to chat with you after dinner time. Karen was usually around you the most; she was full of questions. Tilly would occasionally sneak you canned food from the supply wagon, and Mary-Beth was a good reading partner.

It is a clear night when you decide to seek out Arthur. After having time to reminisce, something deep down spurs you to find him. The childhood memories of him feel like ghosts hovering just over your shoulders, a blanket of turmoil. Part of you wonders if he remembers as much as you do- the day you found him in that town saloon, all the time he spent teaching you his methods for approaching wild horses, the steadiness of his heart on the nights he joined your bedroll under the stars. You don’t want to remember. The only memories you should take delight in are the ones you have with Valentine. He is out there, trying to find you no doubt. He loves you and you love him.

And yet, every night since the raid you are anguished by the dark storm that is Arthur Morgan. 

You aren’t sure what time it is when you decide to leave you sleepspace, but the stars are bright. A quick glance around tells you that mostly everyone is tucked away in their tents, save for Charles, who was assigned night watch. Unlike the others, he doesn’t give you any guff. Each time you stir to find Charles on guard, he never says anything when you want to sit by the campfire or pick fresh fruits from the supplies. He simply keeps his post at the front of camp, patrolling the woods without issue. Bill causes an uproar if you are too active, and Javier simply reminds you he keeps extra blades stashed in his vest.

When you approach Arthur’s tent, you are surprised to see him awake. He is sitting up on his cot, scratching away at a leatherbound journal. His brows are furrowed in concentration, and the light from the lantern over his head illuminates the blonde scruff along his jawline. As you step closer, you clear your throat to get his attention. He doesn’t look up, but simply tosses his pencil aside and closes the journal. You notice how he wrings his hands together, a nervous habit he had managed to retire in his teenage years.

He doesn’t meet your eyes.

“Arthur,” you begin, and it is perhaps the quietest he’s heard your voice since they found you. “I… thank you.” Your ego deflates at the cost of your emotion.

Arthur simply shakes his head and straightens his back. He waves a hand in a gentle dismissal.

“You don’t have to thank me, Cline.” His eyes are still focused on the ground. The insecurity you see there chews at your own, and part of you wants to… do something. Anything to make things easier.

Wordlessly your eyes wander the expanse of Arthur’s cot. There are several pictures pinned to the side of the wagon next to his bed, and a few in frames on a wooden crate. There is a dried flower next to the portrait of a pretty woman, and an old pocket watch varnished in flaking gold. Seeing all this, it brings a small smile to your lips. It’s so… him. Growing up, he was hotheaded and a showboat; nothing like the man you see sitting here now.

He has aged beautifully, you think. It is a shy consideration in your mind, unsure if you’re allowed to feel this way, considering the circumstance.

Arthur must have glanced at you while your eyes were occupied elsewhere, because he is the next one to speak.

“I don’t know what else Dutch has in mind to do with you, but,” he pauses, as if to consider something before speaking again, “When this is over I imagine you’ll be free to go back. He’s after Colm, no one else.”

“That may be true, but it doesn’t matter. We step into fire if it means keeping Colm out of it.”

Arthur winces at the mention of “ _we_ ”. It reminds him all too well where your loyalties lie. It sparks a nerve in him, and you see his face harden. You realize maybe you chose too soon to talk to him. All wounds were still open, sizzling and hurting from the years the two of you spent apart. When Arthur’s expression changes, you silently step away, deciding it was better for neither of you to speak out again.

When you slink away from the glow of the lantern, Arthur lets out a strangled sigh. He wrings his hands, unsure if he wishes things were different. Even if you weren’t an O’Driscoll, he wasn’t sure if things would be any easier. He spent months regretting his decision to leave you in that hotel in Tumbleweed. It ate him from the inside, and it eventually began to show through his work. For months, Dutch wondered what had gotten into him.

“Teenagers,” he would mutter knowingly each time Arthur got into an argument with someone in camp. Hosea tried his best to reassure Arthur, but Arthur knew he didn’t have to right to take any advice when his undoing was from his own actions. It was something he had to move past on his own.

Animals brought back from hunting trips became something just short of road-kill. Miss Grimshaw would have to tend to the fire- one of Arthur’s abandoned duties, along with chopping wood. Eventually Dutch whipped him back into shape, along with the gentle yet stern support of Hosea. Arthur was able to dive into truly being an outlaw; he plunged deep into his work, and returned to his normal self with time.

When an opportunity came to rekindle the regret of leaving you, he took it. He fell in love, accidentally, once again. It was rocky at first. Mary was a prim and proper lady at the hands of a rich and controlling family, and there was a canyon between his life and hers. That didn’t stop him, though. He was determined to do better. And so, with all his might, he tried to do better. 

The clutch of Mary’s father was in inescapable hold. The man detested Arthur throughout the duration of his and Mary’s relationship, and in the end, it got the better of Mary.

“You won’t ever change,” she had said. Her voice is still easy for him to remember. “Oh, Arthur, it is a pretty dream, you and I. But Daddy was right…”

All that remains of that love is sitting on the wooden crate in Arthur’s tent. Her portrait is there, perfectly framed. Each time he glances there, he is reminded that he can still do good, even if Mary hadn’t wanted to see it through.

 

***

 

“Rise and shine, miss!” Dutch’s voice booms close to you. You crack your eyes open to see him strolling around in front of you. He puffs on a cigar planted between his index and middle finger. Micah stands behind him, brooding with a mischievous look across his face.

Uneasily you roll out of bed, throw on your riding boots. When you stand, Dutch motions for you to follow. The three of you walk to Dutch’s tent, where a quiet symphony of opera music plays.

“I have a proposition.” Dutch begins, savoring his smoke. When he exhales, he glances over at you, your face carefully neutral. “I’m gonna let you go, on one condition.”

This has your attention, along with suspicion. You straighten your shoulders a bit and raise an eyebrow questioningly.

“You go free, you go back to Colm, you get him alone. I want to finish this business once and for all.” Dutch’s words doom you right then and there. He is asking you to be an inside man, to aid in the killing of your leader. It must show in your expression, because Micah immediately steps close.

“Gotta be smart with this one, Dutch. The second you let her go, she’ll run and squeal, and we ain’t ever gonna see them O’Driscolls again.”

Dutch simply stares on at you, waiting for a reaction. He can see the gears turning in your head. You know the answer he expects.

“And what if I refuse?” you test the waters.

“Well, we’ll just let Colm kill you himself.” Dutch says matter-of-factly. You shake your head.

“He wouldn’t. I’m his second-hand, I already told you.”

Dutch loses the polite tone when he speaks up this time. “He would if he found out it wasn’t Kieran that led us to his men but indeed his second-hand woman who spilled information.”

You feel your blood turn cold at the thought. Colm would gladly replace you, regardless of how much skill he thought you possessed. Why not get rid of the very thing that ‘makes his best soldier soft’? If he discovered you were a traitor, it would be two for one. Colm would pull the trigger next to your head in a split second. You are sure of it.

“So, what’ll it be, Miss Cline? You can help us kill Colm, or we’ll let him get you first- then we’ll kill him _and_ the whole lot of ‘em.”

When you agree to help, Dutch loses all animosity towards you. His change in demeanor makes you feel like a dog finally being let off a leash. The darkness is gone from his face and he nods smugly, even claps you on the back. Micah glares hard at you, lets you know they’ll be telling the rest of the gang after a plan is made. You can’t walk back to your cot fast enough.

Panic made you rush through your chores when Miss Grimshaw finally requested you for the afternoon. The ladies talked openly around the basin area, even aimed a few comments in your direction, but you felt like you couldn’t speak. You couldn’t feel the sting of the lye reaching the cuts on your hands, much less comprehend what they might be gossiping about. Around the same time Molly comes lurking around you finish your load of laundry and hang all of it to dry. Karen and Mary-Beth grow quiet when the redhead approaches and you take your opportunity to escape while they are distracted.

No longer having social chains confining you to the camp, you set foot towards the river, just below the ridge, and no one says anything. Horses had already worn a sloped path down the hillside. You follow it through a small patch of woods and it isn’t long before the cerulean blue of the Dakota River is within reach. Your mind must have steadily been working itself up as you walked, because you can do nothing but tense up when you take a seat along the gravel bank. Thumps from your heart become loud in your ears as you face the reality of what Dutch expects you to do.

You will run back to the O’Driscolls and everything will be great at first. Valentine will be so glad to have you back, and the lot of you will celebrate. You don’t know how long you’ll spend living with them, Dutch hadn’t provided those details yet, but eventually the normalcy will crash. You’ll have to convince Colm to go off with you somewhere. And then what? What will happen when Dutch puts a bullet between Colm’s eyes? Will you run away as fast as possible? Will you lie, play it off like you couldn’t fight off the killers? What would Valentine do? Would he understand if you told him that it was for his protection? The gang’s protection?

It is all too much. Long awaited tears pool over your eyelids and you briefly feel like retching. Something hot settles over your body but chills your insides; it feels like a fever, but you know exactly what it is.

Fear.

You haven’t felt this scared since you were young. Even then, this fear is something entirely different. It isn’t a thunderstorm or a monster in the night anymore. No, now it is the closeness of your old life. The inevitable future of having nowhere to go, once more.

The splash of ice cold water on your face brings your mind to a halt, blissfully. It’s cold enough to numb your hands and the skin on your face, but it allows you to breathe. Looking down at the river, you watch how the current will occasionally pick up smoothed pebbles and deposit them further down the river. The clarity of the water is stunning, you realize, and it fades into beautiful shades of indigo at the deeper pools. Keeping nature on your mind, you shuffle back across the rocky sand and prop your back against a tree growing just at the waters edge. Tilting your head up, you close your eyes and allow the sunlight to filter through your lids.

 

***

 

That night is the first night you join everyone around the campfire. Usually if you have need for a fire you sneak over to the scouting area and make do with rekindling the dying embers you find there. This time is different.

Dutch calls out to you, invites you over to join him at the fire where everyone else sits. You can’t help but feel obliged to abide by his every word, and something tells you there is a hint of command underlying in his voice when he asks you to join him. _Him_ , he says, not _us_. You aren’t sure if you are overthinking or underthinking his actions. Deciding you would find out his real intentions in due time, you walk to the fire and take a seat next to him.

The chatter dies down a bit, but a drunk Uncle sparks the conversation back to life. Bill has already thrown a few back as well, and you are able to escape his usual abrasive glares and sharp tongue for the time being. He pays no attention to you, too easily distracted by the liquor. Karen and Mary-Beth are loud, fussing over something Sadie commented about. A quick glance at the rest of the illuminated faces tells you Arthur is not here. You can’t decide whether you should feel deflated or relieved.

“Miss Cline,” Dutch says, striking a match on the heel of his boot, “you fancy liquor?” He lights the remaining half of his cigar from earlier and takes a long drag on it, eyeing you.

“Yeah, but I ain’t one for beer,” you admit, and the man chuckles. Someone hands Dutch a crystal glass over the top of your head, followed by a fancy bottle of whiskey.

“Dutch ain’t either,” the person says, taking a seat beside you on another stump. It’s John, the man who you heard was attacked by wolves in the mountains. You hadn’t seen him at all until Horseshoe Overlook, and now you had a face to put to the name.

“Certainly not,” Dutch chuckles and pours a shot of whiskey. He hands it to you instead of drinking it for himself. The gesture surprises you, and at first you hesitate to even take it.

“Consider it our celebration.” Dutch says lowly, and you know it was only meant to reach your ears. It is slightly condescending. But, it is the least he can do since he forced you to make a decision that could royally disrupt your life more than it already is. And with that, you empty the umber liquid with a single toss of your head. The burn that trails down to your stomach is one of the more pleasant things you had experienced lately.

When you hand the empty crystal back to the gang leader, he nods proudly and pats your shoulder. John mutters something in surprise next to you, but it becomes muffled when your attention adverts to the sound of thumping hooves. Just through the arrangement of tents you catch a glimpse of a bay mount trotting into camp. When you realize that the only person it could be is Arthur, you force yourself back to the attention of the crowd. Dutch continues to share his whiskey.

 The young lad named Lenny manages to coax Arthur over to join the rest of the gang, and you can’t help but smile at his youthful enthusiasm, even though the alcohol seems to be encouraging it.

“Arthur! Come join us!” he calls, waving a dark bottle in the air. Faintly you can hear a grumble before the man steps through the curtain of light the fire casts. He is reluctant, but Lenny isn’t fazed. The boy hands Arthur a beer and makes room for him on the log shared with two other people. You can’t help but watch as Arthur takes his seat on the opposite side of the arrangement from you. Briefly your eyes meet over the fire, and you are too weak to hold it. You avert your eyes quickly and curl back into yourself, passing the whiskey over to John, who had asked for a taste. Another quick look tells you Arthur had continued about his business, talking amongst Lenny and the girls.

Surprisingly, you find it easy to talk with John, and Dutch warns you that the ease won’t last for long. You laugh a bit at the banter that continues between the two. When you start to unwind with the help of the hard liquor you nurse throughout the night, reality comes tumbling fiercely back into the spotlight when someone else joins the gathering.

All it takes is a glimpse of red hair turning silver before you know exactly who it is that trollops into the humming embrace of the fires crackling. You had been in the middle of giggling, but abruptly your face changes. The corners of your lips curve down, and you stare hard at Swanson as he staggers around in a drunken stupor.

The drug den flashes in your memory. You can nearly replicate the smell of the drugs setting ablaze within the safe confounds of your mind. It was a unique, sharp sweetness, and easily delivered a head rush when you had burst through the flaming log cabin to save the supplies. Colm had been furious at Valentine, who only had a few crates of opium, morphine, and a knife to the thigh to show for his ‘business trip’. Blood had been smeared across your hands until you arrived back at camp with Valentine. You remember washing it off in a clean laundry basin, and it was no comfort that it wasn’t the first time you had cleaned your hands of Valentine’s blood.

Hot-headed anger suddenly uncoils in the bottom of your chest. It does nothing but gnaw at the bit, wishes to spring out, when you realize just how inaugurated Swanson is. The alcohol and the heat of the fire surely doesn’t help the flood of heat that consumes you.

Dutch and John both notice the sudden drop in your expression. It is easy to see your fingers tighten around the glass until your knuckles are white. Your heartbeat begins to thrum loudly in your chest, but you aren’t sure if it is from the anger of seeing Swanson or the whiskey finally catching up with you. Neither of the men can speak fast enough before a comment comes flying off your tongue.

“Didn’t know you were hosting a halfway house.” You say it out into the open, but you mean it to be for Dutch. He is the leader, in charge of who goes and who stays, after all. He and John share a confused look before they follow your gaze. Unsure if you were fully committed to let your emotions drive you, you didn’t say it too loud. But it was loud enough for a few others to notice. Surprisingly, Swanson turns his head at the sound of your voice, and you don’t hesitate to lock eyes with him.

The man stiffens and quickly stumbles backwards. He trips over the edge of a log in the firepit, falling directly next to the embers. This draws the rest of the group’s attention to him, and he wails and points a finger at you.

“They’ve come to get me!” he cries drunkly. His words are slurred, and even though he is on his ass, the grip on his beer bottle never loosens. “O’Driscolls! I have repented for my sins. Begone, I have nothing else to give you! I owe you nothing!”

“You fuckin’ idiot,” the growl lowly erupts from you and you stand. There is a second where everyone shares confused glances before a few of the men jump to action. If you had been slightly more sober, you would have noticed how Arthur is the first to rush over and hold you back. But you don’t care who it is, you don’t need anyone holding you back from giving that dumb bastard the beating he deserves.

Nonchalantly you flick a shoulder upwards to dismiss Arthur’s hand, but he simply grabs your elbow instead and forces you to step back.

“Alright, woah there, tiger,” Arthur speaks out in a satire tone, doing his best to direct your attention. Dutch is standing behind him and moves closer to Swanson, who is still cackling out meaningless pleas.

“Let go of me, Arthur,” you never take your eyes away from Swanson. When you move to take another step forward, Arthur sighs, similar to that of a mother dealing with a stubborn toddler, and gently pulls you back again. This time he forces your shoulders away from the scene, and promptly walks you away by the grip on your elbow. The glow of the fire dies into inky blank as the two of you walk out of range. Dutch and Grimshaw are talking to Swanson as you have no choice but to finally turn your head away from that direction.

“I think you’ve had enough social time fer one night,” Arthur leads you through the array of canvas tents, towards your bedroll along the ridge. You say nothing the entire way, simply fuming in your silence. Redness has now spread across your cheeks and down along your throat, a mixture of elements taken from both anger and liquor. Although now you were coming down from that feeling fairly quick.

“He deserves it.” Is all you manage to say when you finally decide to speak. Your voice is hoarse from being so forcibly not used during the short walk. You have to clear it in order to keep the anger from rolling out onto Arthur, although he can see the aggravation still rolling over you.

“Don’t we all,” he drawls and gestures a hand towards your bedroll. You glance there, and then back to him with a sassy blink.

“I’m being serious Arthur.”

“So am I.” He carefully hides the smile threatening to grace his lips. It’s humorous, he thinks, seeing you act all big and bad now, especially towards the frail excuse that is the Reverend. Although your head isn’t crystal clear, it is clear enough that your anger towards that man is serious.

You scoff incredulously and shake your head, turning away from him to walk to your bed. Just as he thinks you’re going to walk away without anymore fussing, you stop and turn around to continue your train of thought.

“He’s a dealer, and a lousy one,” you simmer. A finger jabs through the air at the direction of the campfire. Arthur simply stares on at you, hands placed lazily on his hips.

“Had a whole den of morphine and opium, real fancy import from the Chinese,” you continue. “Bastard thought he could skimp out on us, stopped delivering what we paid for, what Colm paid for. And what does he do? His crackhead friends try to kill Valentine, and Swanson lights the whole damn den on fire!” Your drunken buzz was teetering on the edge of being fully erased.

Arthur had told himself not to get worked up, but he can’t ignore the words in your little outburst. He darkly takes a step close to you, one step, two steps, before he is close enough to have an intimidating height difference over you. His head is slightly crooked down to look at you, voice quiet but stern, as if to keep others from hearing.

“If you’re gonna run with us, there ain’t no “ _we_ ”.” He’s talking about the O’Driscolls, the way you speak about them and mention them. “You ain’t with Colm. You ain’t with… whoever.” He gets aggravated over his pause and flicks a hand in the air absentmindedly.

You simply stare up at him defiantly.

“The only “ _we_ ” that should be comin’ outta your mouth is us. _This_ gang. You don’t like it? I’m sure Dutch’ll let you change your decision.” So he already knows about the arrangement.

The blonde doesn’t give you time to retaliate. He turns and walks away, leaving you to hurt in the aftermath of what his words inferred. To change your decision means to die with them.

He couldn’t possibly mean that.

***

 

The next afternoon, Dutch corrals you into his tent once more to discuss further details of the arrangement. Much to your dismay, Arthur is there to listen, along with Micah and Bill.

When the pleasantries are finally sorted and all questions answered, you numbly leave the eyesight of authority to sit by the river again. It is colder today than most, but sunny, nonetheless. Birds chirp their frozen song across the spans of rolling hills and chiseled cliffs. Pickerels dart beneath the surface of the Dakota river and deer promptly cross the main road for a cool drink. You are back where you expected to be. Sitting here, chest nearly caving in with the tightness at which you held it. If you had a smoke to nurse, you would be gulping it down, wishing to never exhale.

You were supposed to leave camp several hours ago. Now that Dutch was removing your collar for good, allowing you to run back to the thing you wanted most, you didn’t want to leave. Because leaving meant the start of your doom. Sure, you wanted to run into Valentine’s arms, to cry, to sleep next to him and enjoy the comfort being with him brings you. You wanted to check up on Barrett and Snyder, who are all that remains of the posse. Castillo is gone. Snyder was the closest to him.

But if running back to them meant putting them in danger, you would gladly stay away. You don’t know for sure if you can trust Dutch’s word. He is the leader of a gang of outlaws. Sure, he seems morally more just than Colm, but his hatred for the O’Driscolls is clear as day. Who is to say your decision has any meaning at all? What if he doesn’t stop when he kills Colm, what if he keeps going, keeps killing, even though your agreement ends with Colm dying and everyone else living?

Even if he does keep his word, you are sorely reminded that your fate is the same in the end regardless of what path is chosen. If Dutch decides to kill everyone, you’ll be nothing more than a corpse when the sun sets. If Colm is the only life lost, you’ll wish Dutch had killed you, too. They will find out you worked to kill their leader. Valentine’s heart will break, and yours right along with it. And it’s all just a matter of time.

 A sharp whistle from behind you pulls you out of your thoughts. You turn around and see Arthur approaching atop his bay mare. Her coat shimmers beautifully like copper, testimony to good caretaking.

“I thought you was supposed to be leavin’.” He walks his mare until he is in easy speaking range. You glance back at the river before rising to your feet with a grunt.

“Didn’t know you wanted me gone so badly,” the words sharply leave your mouth. When you look up at him, he slumps over the horn of his saddle and props his forearms there. The rim of his hat casts a dark shadow over his eyes.

“That… ain’t what I meant,” his voice is quiet, and you barely hear it over the trickling of water along the bank, “just figure’d you’d be gone by now, is all.”

Oh. You nod in understanding.

“I ah, reckon I would be but I don’t intend on walkin’.” There’s an uncomfortable silence while Arthur studies you intently. He takes notice of the white shirt under your coat, and the green necktie you had tried to conceal under the collar. You still compensate on one leg from that time you’d landed on your knee wrong after getting bucked off of a wild mustang.

“What happened to Boadicea?” the question is solemn, and he really doesn’t want to hear the answer. He is relieved when you shrug, tell him that she was likely still with the O’Driscolls. The last time you had seen her was at the mining basin in the Grizzlies. “Hosea brought in a lousy draft the other day. Might be able to talk him into borrowing it.”

Arthur walks his mare a few steps forward and holds his hand down to you. “Hop on, I’ll give you ride up the ridge.” Oh, Arthur, still a gentleman as always. You try to hide the small smile that turns your lips upward as you reach up to take his hand. He hauls you high enough until you’re able to swing a leg over the mare’s flank, and you reluctantly grab his waist to keep you centered once the horse moves into gait.

It is just a short trek up the ridge where the camp is stationed, but dear god, it can’t end fast enough. Neither of you are still clearly at ease with each other, albeit every day the gap grows less and less. But that’s just the thing. You aren’t sure if that gap is allowed to get smaller. By all means, it shouldn’t. In fact, it should be growing. His gang is forcing you to put an end to yours, yet here you are, ears burning when you realize you can feel the tautness of his abdomen shift with the sway of the horse. You contemplate letting go and dealing with the consequences if you fall off, but when the mare reaches the steep incline of the ridge, she lurches forward, and you only hang on tighter.

John eyes the two of you as camp approaches, but he says nothing and simply continues on his way, rifle in hand. You slide off of the horse’s flank once she halts at the hitching post. Fast steps bring you to your bedroll where it sits on the ridge for the last time. You enjoyed the view but can’t necessarily say you’ll miss it. The edges of the quilted material are folded neatly and you bundle it into a tight roll, secured with frail rope. It’s all you have, besides the satchel that hangs at your side.

Hosea is more than happy to lend you the draft.

“Don’t worry, he’s a good horse. Just be wary of his attitude- he can be a mean bastard.”

Having been stripped of weapons since the camp raid, Hosea also lends you a volcanic pistol. He says something about it being too small for his liking, but you have a feeling he is giving it to you out of the kindness. Even though you hadn’t known him longer than a few days, back when Arthur took you to their camp in New Austin, you had felt a strong pull to Hosea. He was much like a father, or grandfather, even. There was a kind and sparing wisdom about him.

 You thank him from the bottom of your heart before heading to the hitching posts. The draft is massive, black hide shining like that of a raven’s back. A white blaze paints his face with character, and you can tell from the way he stomps his hooves at flies that Hosea was right. He would be a lot to deal with, but luckily you had grown up with a knack for training horses.

Kieran already has a worn, spare saddle up on the draft’s back when you walk over. The man eyes you with an odd expression but continues to strap the girth into place, cinching it tight. The draft reaches his head around and nips at Kieran when he feels the material tighten, but he simply pats the horse’s neck.

You mutter a measly “thanks,” as you secure your bedroll to the saddle and unhitch the reins from the post. It is a stretch to throw the reins over the draft’s head, but you manage and climb up into the saddle. As you make final adjustments, Dutch strolls over, and Arthur is slowly following behind him.

“We’ll keep in contact,” the leader assures. He watches you with suspecting eyes, eyes that say, ‘ _you have a job to do’_. When you lift your eyes to look past Dutch, the rim of Arthur’s hat is hiding his face. Deciding there is nothing you can say, you are silent as you steer the dark mount away from camp. John watches as you pass through the brush of the wood, and Karen gives you a one-handed wave, her rifle stationary in her other hand. You wave back.

That night, Arthur is adamant on having a few hours of being undisturbed in his tent. When the sun sets, he lights the oil lantern hanging at his bedside and picks up his journal. The pages are still stiff when he opens the cover and skims past the pages he has already marked. For a moment, he ridicules on the thought of being such a penman in his older age, considering even a sum of bills from both Dutch and Hosea couldn’t convince him to read in his youth, let alone write.

When Arthur whittles an edge to the tip of the charcoal pencil he writes until the floodgates of his mind are left dry and empty.

_Dutch has sent Cline to be an outsider in her own family, and here I am wondering if she is right to call them a family at all. I suppose beauty is in the eye of the beholder; she’s a dedicated O’Driscoll, that much is clear._

_It’s been years since I last seen Cline. I haven’t forgot the time we spent together, and I imagine she hasn’t either. We’re different people now, and yet our lives intertwine once again, just like it used to. The years haven’t been kind to her and I’m sure my youth sets the stage for the struggle that I now see in her. I pray that Dutch doesn’t drag her down a path too irreversible. She is a fearful force when protecting the people she loves, I know that now._

_I only hope she is protecting the right ones._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How does she know where she's going, you might ask? Well. That sounds like a good question. Also sounds like a bridge I'll cross when I get there.


End file.
